He never said I love you.

Even though he worked in the steel mills
in those times, through and through
he remained a farmer.

In October, he'd roast the red peppers
on the farmhouse balcony
with the acetylene torch.

His sounding voice
silenced everyone.
His daughter stood up to him.

He never said I love you.

Tobacco and steel dust
plowed through his vocal cords.
A field poppy less two leaves.

His daughter has married into another city.
The retiree brings a gift.
Not rubies, not red silk, either.

Over the years he lifted the parts from the mill.
With the acetylene torch
inch by inch he made her a bed from the steel.

He never said I love you.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin