I know that in my childhood

there was a day, a moment, an hour
when I discovered the purple flavor of the strawberry,
but that day, that moment, that hour,
have been lost forever.

The strawberry has, but also forever
the purple flavor of childhood.

When I bite the docile body
of that fruit I am biting time.

Everything is as if it had not been. The tricycle,
the various dogs, the moon seen for the first
time, the red mouth of the fish, the first friend,
everything happened and it is as if it
had not been.

The anguish of the solitary recesses
in primary school follows me and tears me apart
because a little of that courtyard of blackberries
and bells, of bustle and first
glances, stayed here, with me, and yet
everything is as if it had not been.

Things, they say, happen only once.
A day, a moment, an hour. Then
we are a crude imitation of ourselves,
as if what we were were chasing us
through streets and rooftops, seeking our hand,
to kiss it.

Despite this beard and these wrinkles,
just beneath them, is the child who climbed
a fig tree for the first time and knew
that he would never set foot on earth again.
He still fills his gums with that wine.
Life, love, books, the endless steps
of the Faculty of Letters, friends, the grey humus of the sea.

And everything, my God, everything is
as if it had never been.