Como está mi gente bella de Hive y 3speak? en esta oportunidad les traigo otro poema musicalizado de esta iniciativa creada por mi persona, la cual pueden ver Aquí . Voy a recompensar al poeta, autor con el 25% de ganancia en HBD que genere este post, para motivarlos a que sigan creando obras tan maravillosas para la plataforma, sin más preámbulo…
A continuación les presentare el poema de 
Tomaba la mesa más retirada,
la del rincón frente a la ventana.
Era siempre a la misma hora, las 11 de la mañana.
Se notaba en sus ojos,
a través de los gruesos cristales,
que la lucha con el ángel de la noche
había sido larga y ardua.
Puntual y circunspecto,
silencioso y lento como sus pasos.
Sacaba su manoseada libreta del añoso paltó,
la aristocrática pluma,
y llamaba al mesonero.
Yo acudía prontamente
para tomar la nota que no variaba:
un café negro, largo,
y una ración de magdalenas.
Allí permanecía, hundido en las páginas
de su rancio cuadernillo,
o mirando, atento o perdido,
por la amplia ventana del salón,
a la gente en su ritual tránsito cotidiano,
las llamativas vendedoras de flores,
las hojas desprendidas de los árboles,
los trabajadores de la tabacalera…
Encendía un cigarrillo
y se iba con su humo viajero,
un poco cabizbajo,
a encontrarse con el ocaso
y sus álter egos.
Si les gusto mi iniciativa déjenme saberlo en los comentarios, y espero poder musicalizar otro poema, muchas gracias por su atención.
How is my beautiful people of Hive and 3speak? this time I bring you another poem set to music of this initiative created by me, which you can see Here . I will reward the poet, author with 25% of profit in HBD that generates this post, to motivate them to continue creating such wonderful works for the platform, without further ado ....
Next I will present the poem by
He took the most secluded table,
the one in the corner in front of the window.
It was always at the same time, 11 o'clock in the morning.
You could see it in his eyes,
through the thick glass,
that the struggle with the angel of the night
had been long and arduous.
Punctual and circumspect,
silent and slow as his steps.
He took out his manicured notebook from the aged palm tree,
the aristocratic pen,
and called the waiter.
I would come promptly
to take the note that did not vary:
a long black coffee,
and a ration of muffins.
There he remained, sunk in the pages of his stale notebook
of his stale notebook,
or staring, attentive or lost,
through the wide window of the living room,
the people in their daily ritual traffic,
the gaudy flower sellers,
the leaves falling from the trees,
the tobacco workers....
He would light a cigarette
and left with its traveling smoke,
a little crestfallen,
to meet the sunset
and his alter egos.
If you like my initiative let me know in the comments, and I hope to be able to set another poem to music, thank you very much for your
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