Where are the words born?
(This poem was awarded in its Spanish version
with the Argent Flower of the XIII Flowers Games of Andalusia)
It is Midday,
there is light in my room,
and my hands,
and my fingers,
are pressing keys.
Each touch
becomes a letter,
a letter on the screen.
Letters gather
forming words,
green words
without hope,
herb reaped
before born.
The Sun
instead to grow her
is burning her.
What does it matter,
we sleep well on the lawn.
It is humid and comfortable.
You can dream:
dreams have no limits.
They are not like reality
that loves disabusing you.
Where are words born?
In the mind, we suppose.
But my mind values them not
before written.
I read them with my eyes,
listen to them with my soul.
I remain quiet for a moment
to detect the message.
Do they speak to my heart?
Do they caress my feelings?
Are they, in some way,
exciting to me?
And normally they are.
They wake my pain,
they wake my glee.
They caress my skin
with gentle breeze.
Or make me fell so bored!
that I condemn them to die,
effacing the screen.
Pressing a single key
you may efface hours of life.
Nothing escapes, nothing is left.
A single touch, your world is void.
But my words were kissing me
and I caressed them.
I put in them all my soul.
I would love
the herb had never died.
I would love the herb
remained always green,
always humid.
I would love the sun
caressed her for ever.
had never burnt her,
never sentenced her,
sentenced her
to die.
The sun can be gentle and mild
or cruel and merciless.
He can make you bloom
or crush you without pity.
The herb knows that.
She also knows
that without him
she cannot live.
She owns him her life
and has to pay him
with her death.
Death is just a deep sleep
from which she shall wake one day.
She shall revive
when the sun is gentle again.
But the herb ignores that
and she is afraid.
She cannot understand
the same sun who gave her the life
is killing her now,
robbing her the water,
letting her dry
in horrid agony.
She seeks not to die.
She weeps and pleads.
What an irony!
Appealing to the sun
so immensely big and hot,
so immensely ahead in the sky!
The sun cannot see the herb,
the humble and tiny herb
who desires so hard
not to die!
The sun caressed her cradle
without knowing.
With gentle spring air
he made her grow and blossom
And now,
always without knowing;
he is killing her,
he is burning her
with his fire.
You see
Where brought me
the first word I wrote?
A word is born.
Where it is born?
In the mind,
under your fingers,
on the screen.
You sense it,
you feel it,
you touch it.
Then you ask
to yourself:
What will it mean
for the other person,
the alluded person,
the person for whom
it is written?
Will she sense it
the same way I sense it?
Will she share my emotion?