"La danza del padre" Ninth movement: La mère est malade.

They say that my mother is about to die.

You come back from your exile, pretending to be crooked, limping.

As a model son you're repeating the steps of your father:

embolism, exaggeration, hypochondria.

Mom told us that our grandfather was lying, she had caught the old man walking well, 

with normal face muscles, with his hand well, 

she said that the old man was deceiving them.

You arrive as the prodigal son,

with your face twisted, your hand cramped, limping.

Like a copy, like an inherited model.

I catch you while others aren't looking:

with a normal walk, quiet, straight.

You come back to the room and, before coming in, you pause, you enact a cripple.

You visit your dying wife, our loving mother, you present a loving face, a crippled body, a trembling voice.

You are such a case,

I must either describe you or paint you or kill you.