there are books that you carry under your arm
books one has grown up with
screaming books from the library
books that argue among themselves,
one is never alone because there is always someone
that woke up with more desire to chicanear than another
then he throws an idea and the other answers him
and you smile with your mouth, with your fins, in that human fish tank
where centuries coexist, words,
men who should have retracted
women who boarded boats full of pirates
kings who have passed the most absurd laws
elves, spaceships, Rocinante, Bucephalus, Babieca
they neigh, bellowing the name of Alejandro, del Cid
and Quixote, I don't know what day and night would be without them,
friends, classmates, severe teachers, comedians and
crazy, crazy, the hand slides down their loins
and at the bottom of the shelves landscapes are illuminated,
songs are heard, proserpinas, julietas, sorrowful orpheus,
they file the teeth of boredom
one does not know what it is to stay still because they are there,
suddenly they are there and you open them and you are in Morocco,
one begins to read them and feels the sand of Troy on one's feet,
the thorns on the bushes of Candido's castle.
I was almost twenty years without them,
I came to their homes by chance
but once i've talked and drunk the wine
I couldn't go away anymore.
And they have words! And those words are music!
and you are happy, you are so happy, when you feel in your hands,
as if it were a sword, the luminous weight of their bodies.