I don't know how it will have been with others
what will have happened to them
if they were born from books or from the ruins of the soul
taking off the splinters of sadness
the red pieces of joy,
I don't know for what reason or carelessness others chose or not
or maybe they chose nothing and set out on the road
by the divine whim of chance or bad weather,
I don't know how others found the sinuous sea of ​​poetry,
in my case, if I'm not wrong, if memory doesn't fail me,
it was out of sheer ignorance of what he would do in life.
given so many times to cowardice
the poem redeemed me from being absent from forts
of walking barefoot the landscapes where nobody told me or
nobody named me,
I think it was the brotherhood of all my selves and my absences.
I do not know how others have arrived
in my case I entered the poem as one enters a ship
abandoned in stone: the smell of wood,
the salt stuffed with nothing, the beautiful and vain hope of finding
in the shipwreck all the lost land,
my own name dipped in the sand.