El poema con el que participo en SPAIN NOW!
We have described so often this late light, its platitudes, how it surprises us deciding to belong, its custom of weighting each feature with the marks of pain, its place of origin, we speak of this
so many times we’ve seen it come, cheerful, numb, silent, fragile, we’ve seen it settle down on many things, seeking a place to spend the night, delicate as one who’s dreamed it all, and after all
if things regard us like they didn’t know their own ubiquity, as if life were a stay in resurrection, where we miss the strangers, perhaps it is because we know the dream of things, because it tells them everything
left unsaid, or because it paused a moment in the scattered raindrops the clouds held onto, like eggs of the world, in the patience of plants, on the multitude of puddles, who knows
what darks paths, what distances each day traverses till it understands the dream we live in, despite ourselves, our intentions, our gazing at ourselves as if we didn’t know how much to be born
it’s realising that one isn’t here, because one has no back, like the dead, or like the wounded; maybe they gaze at us too, who knows, perhaps they say to each other: now they are naked in the light, night will come to clothe them; I wonder
how the ones who never had the chance to be born welcome those who die, the ones still unborn when everything die; perhaps it’s not such a fanciful question, after all, why shouldn’t we chance to dream
of everyone, the wide world full of strangers capable of the most elemental longing, the longing of one stranger for another, a stranger, anybody, if sleeping perhaps, but dreaming
won’t protect us from the pain of others; perhaps dying doesn’t make us indifferent, after all.
Abraham Gragera (from El tiempo menos solo)
Translated into English by Terence Dooley