The old man from the street (El viejo de la calle) [EN/ES]

A misaligned human being is standing there, like a surrealist painting embedded in society, that society that turns its eyes, ignoring the old man, maybe out of selfishness, maybe out of fear, maybe indifference, but that old man is still there, undaunted, patient, watching life go by.

The wrinkles that decorate his face are furrows of experience, of a life full of stories, which marked him deeply, happy moments, sad moments, teachings that he carries in an existential suitcase for a lifetime.

He no longer cares what they will say, the gossip or the ridicule of those, who for a second avert their gaze. The old man is still there, perhaps waiting for someone to come over to tell him his stories, those that he has loaded by hundreds in several decades of existence.

The misaligned beard, as populated as a jungle of capillary hairs, where the gray hairs take the panorama, painting the youthful jet white, which gives way to the sunset of life. A life that is touching the horizon of the end, where the sun is dying.

His gaze reflects a sadness with resignation of life, that life that slips away like water between the fingers. His dull eyes have lost that vital force of living, maybe he got tired, maybe he resigned himself, maybe it's just pain of living and accepting all those experiences, but it can also be a calm gaze, full of life wisdom.

A cane with small undulations, almost as tall as the old one, sustains the existence of one who has grown tired of walking through life, legs that have overcome obstacles, big, small and some insurmountable. How many times did he fall? The old man only has the answer, he only knows what his life was. Now that rustic cane accompanies him in his tired walk, a walk that has become slower with the passage of time and also safer.

His battered clothes, worn out by the passage of time, cover that body battered by the years and becomes weaker as life fleetingly passes, like a sudden breath in the cosmos. Those dirty clothes, unpleasant for many, carry with them the worn-out body, every fiber contains the experiences of the old man.

The color of life has become grayish shades at that existential stage. The curved posture is a witness of all the existential weight that he has carried for so many years, the weight that becomes more and more unsustainable and continues to curve and dwarf the body, mistreated by so much that he has endured, so much that he has carried with him, so much that he has added in his life, good and bad things.

At the end of the day, the old man adds new experiences, new hours to his existence. Learning in that one to walk through those stony streets of life. Those streets that have seen millions pass, that are no longer there, those streets that we are all traveling without having a choice. The old man is still standing on that street, taking a breath, watching people pass by, takes a second breath and continues to admire life, which flows irrepressible, unstoppable.

The old man is still standing on that street, waiting to resume his course, the one that will take him to his destination marked from before his birth and that is taking him as far as he has to go, as far as life reaches him. There he is standing, waiting for the moment to continue walking along the marked path. In the end, everything is resignation and acceptance of a truth that touches us all.

Ahí está parado un ser humano desalineado, como una pintura surrealista enquistada en la sociedad, aquella sociedad que vuelve los ojos, ignorando al viejo, tal vez por egoísmo, tal vez por miedo, tal vez indiferencia, pero aquel viejo sigue ahí, impávido, paciente, viendo pasar la vida.

Las arrugas que decoran su rostro son surcos de experiencia, de una vida llena de historias, que lo marcaron profundamente, momentos felices, momentos tristes, enseñanzas que carga en una maleta existencial por toda la vida.

Ya no le importa el qué dirán, las habladurías o las burlas de aquellos, que por un segundo desvían la mirada. Ahí sigue el viejo, tal vez esperando que alguien se acerque para contarle sus historias, aquellas que tiene por cientos cargadas en varias décadas de existencia.

La barba desalineada, tan poblada como un una selva de vellos capilares, donde las canas se toman el panorama, pintando de blanco el azabache juvenil, que da paso al ocaso de la vida. Una vida que va tocando el horizonte del fin, allá donde el sol va muriendo.

Su mirada refleja una tristeza con resignación de vida, esa vida que se escurre como agua entre los dedos. Sus ojos apagados han perdido esa fuerza vital de vivir, tal vez se cansó, tal vez se resignó, tal vez solo sea dolor de vivir y aceptar todas aquellas experiencias, pero también puede ser una mirada sosegada, llena de sabiduría de vida.

Un bastón con pequeñas ondulaciones, casi tan alto como aquel viejo, sostiene la existencia de aquel que se ha cansado de caminar por la vida, piernas que han sorteado escollos, grandes, pequeños y algunos insuperables. ¿Cuantas veces cayó? El viejo solo tiene la respuesta, él solo sabe lo que fue su vida. Ahora aquel bastón rústico lo acompaña en su andar cansado, un andar que se ha vuelto más lento con el paso del tiempo y también más seguro.

Su ropa maltratada, desgastada por el paso del tiempo, cubren aquel cuerpo maltratado por los años y se vuelve más débil al pasar la vida fugaz, como un soplo repentino en el cosmos. Aquella ropa sucia, desagradable para muchos, lleva consigo el cuerpo desgastado, cada fibra contiene las vivencias del viejo.

El color de la vida se ha convertido en matices grisáceos en aquella etapa existencial. La postura curvada es un testigo de todo el peso existencial, que ha llevado por tantos años, el peso que se vuelve cada vez más insostenible y sigue curvando y empequeñeciendo el cuerpo, maltratado por tanto que ha soportado, por tanto que ha llevado consigo, por tanto que se ha sumado en su vida, cosas buenas y malas.

Al final del día, el viejo suma nuevas experiencias, nuevas horas a su existencia. Aprendiendo en aquel recorrer por aquellas calles pedregosas de la vida. Aquellas calles que han visto pasar a millones, que ya no están, aquellas calles que todos vamos recorriendo sin tener opción. El viejo sigue parado en esa calle, tomándose un respiro, viendo pasar a la gente, toma un segundo respiro y sigue admirando la vida, que fluye incontenible, imparable.

El viejo sigue parado en aquella calle, esperando retomar su rumbo, aquel que lo llevará a su destino marcado desde antes de su nacimiento y que lo va llevando hasta donde tenga que llegar, hasta donde la vida le alcance. Ahí está parado, esperando el momento de seguir andando por el camino marcado. Al final todo es resignación y aceptación de una verdad que nos toca a todos.

We leave you the participation of Rincón Poético in 'A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words.' You are cordially invited to participate in this interesting contest, the link is provided below

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