Faisal Abbas 
nightmare
I have a repeated nightmare. Not every day but constantly. I see my children as a party in a future city, a city of harsh and mechanical creatures, blood and broken glass that they pass through their soft white feet. Look at their sad eyes, and their silent gestures under the orange sky. I am on the other screen, bustle in the biology world. This dream is frequently repeated, not every day but constantly. Then I wake up, ignite the lights and breathe. Because they are here, sleeping in their family, confident that they are protected with something bigger and more powerful. It is said that all parents have such dreams. It is the price of planting the seed, it’s something for you but you don’t own it. This is what my mother says. Strange dreams become real and accurate day. Because the world is heading towards a terrifying future in which you see your children get barefoot in the streets of blood, broken glass, and harsh and mechanical organisms. You can not do anything because you are besieged in another dimension.
■ ■ ■
summer
It was my last holiday. I was exclusively tasked with sales in the Levante area. I was going to customer dates while you are waiting for me in the car. We were a team. You are running the radio, dressing my glasses, two Ferrari caps, and running the steering wheel. I remember every moment we lived together: the desire to return to the hotel, put the clown nose and search for your smile.
My mom needed a break to rearrange her life. I got to know a hospital doctor and was training how to tell you that you have a new father, a great and beautiful home and new sisters. She was saying that we have to end this farce, we have to think of our daughter. My mother loves you so much and Antonio is a good person. For me, I want you to know that you were the only love in my life. And that I only lived these years in the hope of returning to that hotel again, and to find sleeping and caressing your hair.
■ ■ ■
Rain
The rain is above the seller who holds a tie before going home. The rain is above the green shadow for the workshop, where some mechanical girls, who put in his youth, tattooed hearts on his arm. The rain is above the hair of the old lady, which barely reaches an empty bus. The rain is above the shopping cart, vegetables, tomatoes, and frozen beams. The rain is above the intensive care unit. The rain is above my father’s glasses, which phone is concerned about my career. The rain is over the seller who drives his car slowly, who only thinks about disappearing, at least for a while, changing the city, renting a small apartment, buying a mobile phone, and starting again.
■ ■ ■
Living attempt
He devoured the silence of the remains of the previous day. A cold potato that the child did not eat, bread and a little water, this is enough. Didn’t you follow anything, right? Echo words in home electronic devices. Years ago, he was shivering with panic just to hear these words, but the time covered things with a thick layer of normal.
■ ■ ■
Washing powder
Why will the clothes dry very slowly?
Why do the fruit stains remain and your lips
If the degeneration powder “Dexan” removes the stains with one wash and forever
Why the roughness of the clothes and the dryness of its texture
If you think about your hands and in your way of looking at me and telling me
It is because of love, the sheets must be washed again
Sad questions like all the ads of washing powders
And I do not find a better way than your hands
In those bars and bare shops at night.
■ ■ ■
Ford
Like a bear who wakes up from his hibernation
Our Ford car is traveling as it melts the snow of the windshield
I put bags in the back seat and review the road map
Now you pray half sleeping
Without decoration, without wearing your best broken clothes because of the last night
A night of fear and clothes that enter
It comes out of the wardrobes, a night that resembles an uninterrupted refrigerator
But today is different and you sit next to me as before when we were traveling without a wheel
Through forests and atom fields on those nights
From the lit headlights in search of the ocean
Ford car slows the hill slowly
I want to travel to the south, to the south of all projects.
* Translation of Spanish: Ibrahim Al -Yaishi
card
Pablo García Casado A Spanish poet, born in the city of Cordoba in 1972. He published several bureaus, including “Suburbs” (1997), “Map of America” (2001), “Mal” (2007), “Outside the field” (2013), and “Gardia” (2015).
