Forest
The unwritten poem that mocks the word
paralyzes my hand above the blank paper.
Once more my head is a forest and my hand is an insect
monstrosity plays with
and from language itself the words that haunt it spring
as dreams of grandeur spring from a poor devil.
Such darkness could well announce the birth of the happy poem
I wish this one were.
I wish, I wish. I want to return to the forest,
my words fill me: voices I ought to interpret:
a song before language as if of leaf sounds
a hope, through the trees, of finding it in the depth of the forest
with “an unknown light” which will illuminate everything in the space
of an instant of forever,
and forgetting earthbound language,
will open the heart to the song overflowing it.
The heart: mouth of the impossible poem
so similar to happiness.
— translated from the Spanish by Mary Crow