Welcome (a rough translation into English of 'Bienvenida' by Mario Benedetti)

It occurs to me that you'll arrive differently
not exactly cuter
nor stronger, more docile
or more cautious,
it's just that you'll arrive differently.

As if this time without seeing me
would've surprised you as well,
maybe because you know
how much I think of you and number you,
after all nostalgia exists.

Even though we don't cry
at the ghostly platforms
or over the pillows full of candor,
nor under the matt sky,
I'm nostalgic,
you're nostalgic,
and how it fucks me up that he's nostalgic.

Your face is avant-garde,
maybe it arrives first
because I paint it on the walls
with invisible and secure traces.
Don't forget that your face
looks at me as a peasant,
smiles, throws a fit, and sings like a peasant
and that gives you an inextinguishable light.

Now I have no doubts,
you'll arrive differently and with signs,
with news, with depth, with frankness

I know I'll love you without questions
I know you'll love me without answers.