III
encircled by all the joys
she can’t touch
she struggles with her paralyzed tongue
to at least sing about the olive tree.
And as far as the handsome boys
who turn red when they look at naked women
and all the possibilities of their free lifestyle
she wouldn’t be able to sing a hymn for them
even if she was as talkative as a magpie.
You write poetry? she asks me
sighing as if with difficulty.
Yes, I say not daring
to admit to myself
that its unquestionably bitten shape
inspires me now
like its old beauty
when in a few hesitant seconds
it touched me.
Libros Libertad 