Poetry

And it was at that age… Poetry arrivedin search of me.

I don't know,

I don't know whereit came from, from winter or a river.

I don't know how or when,no they were not voices, they were notwords, nor silence,but from a street I was summoned,from the branches of night,abruptly from the others,among violent firesor returning alone,there I was without a faceand it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouthhad no waywith names,my eyes were blind,and something started in my soul,fever or forgotten wings,and I made my own way,decipheringthat fire,and I wrote the first faint line,faint, without substance, purenonsense,pure wisdomof someone who knows nothing,and suddenly I sawthe heavensunfastenedand open,planets,palpitating plantations,shadow perforated,riddledwith arrows, fire and flowers,the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,drunk with the great starryvoid,likeness, image ofmystery,felt myself a pure partof the abyss,

I wheeled with the stars,my heart broke loose on the wind.

From: ‘Memorial de Isla Negra’