miércoles, 6 de marzo de 2013

Story of remoteness, 2.



Words



Sometimes, I do fall into long monologues,
and words move me as if they were good, good mothers,
unconditional friends, comrades.
Just talking I sometimes heal from every evil that boils in the dead city,
it cures me of all the sickness and all the sadness.
Sometimes a talk is like letting the music play,
and a voice that imposes with its brief strings
is also peace, love, every thing that is worthy
and comes back to claim its name
allowing itself to be named by the same voice that unties it.
Happiness could very well be just a word
but it is mine in any case, it is in any case my truth,
my ardent breath that happily becomes verb
and resets my pain, my suffering and my agony
shaping a tremendous smile that compares the moon with its beauty
and in the end is mine, and only mine, and I give it away
to those who have an ear for music.
To talk, talking about anything,
just saying beautiful things,
not being afraid of the vacuum nor the sea of futility,
loosing talk,
saying yes, no, sometimes,
saying that I love you, I’m out of here, so long,
and then shutting up at the right time, walking and redecorating words
when indiscriminately giving away phrases, texts, strokes,
smiling to the stranger,
to the walking woman,
to the child that’s always playing.
And just listening with unusual care to what they say.
If they’re happy, the words
are not only words.
They are bridges lying between two shadows,
they are lights in the starless night,
they are huge windows through which the air passes and sometimes
so do the spirits.
Saying yes, when everybody else denies,
is a cardinal virtue.
To those who affirm with their voice, with their gesture, with their elegance
should be granted the rank of Prince
since their gallantry means highness.
And talking with your own life,
saying pretty things by just living,
with the only air that you breathe,
setting the example of laughing…
that also justifies our existence.
Because being is a problem
and the very solution, just a word.
Whether it has meaning or not,
whether it is new or made up,
the word, said in the appropriate space and time,
lasts.
It is stronger than stone.
Children are always learning to speak:
and so am I, for I am a child
born of the heart of speech.
And like a newborn to language I’m always looking for happy findings,
I jump from complexity to simplicity,
I lie, discover, celebrate, certify,
extend grubby checks
and introduce documents sealed with a carmine kiss
that I always steal from a beautiful woman.
I speak as well, for not only does the poet,
other men speak too when they do not fear the nothingness,
those happy flukes that take joyfulness as their own.
Many believe they are talking,
but they should just keep quiet.
We, the happy,
even in silence say tricks.
Happiness:
believe me, it is not only a word,
but well spoken, it could also be true.








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