Maria Josep Escrivà

To write a poem like living 

a forbidden love. 

At times ruins, at times 

bony, and finally, a stale poem 

of impossibilities. 

A poem as a small domestic 

issue, or a visceral complaint, 

that through its uttering mountains become hollowed. 

As a solitude that is mine only, 

but I never long for. 

As I am, as I would never 

like to be. 

An urgent poem as a journey 

which only the greed of certain hands 

would take on. 

To write a poem as if to carry out an ample 

act of thanksgiving, as if to breathe 

primal mirth. 

A poem like a farewell the sun never sets on. 

A poem like a prayer for the rain. 

To write a poem 

as alive as green grass, 

a poem as false as nothingness. 

A rotten poem like a regret, 

like original sin in the pit of our stomach. 

A poem more moribund than nostalgia itself. 

A futile poem, our very own poem 

as if sharing a table. 

A poem of woe, a poem of roots, a poem to inclemency. 

A living and vital poem like a tree. 

To write a poem, finally, as a lover 

searching in every kiss, just as a furrow 

breaches the earth 

and the earth, still tepid, 

in its primitive silence, 

soon forgets.