Ara mateix

Right now I thread this needle
with the thread of an undisclosed purpose
and I start to mend. None of the wonders
foretold by famous miracle workers
have come true, and the years pass quickly.
From nothing to little, always against the wind,
what a long path of anguish and silences.
And here we are; it's better to know it and say it
and plant our feet on the ground and proclaim ourselves
heirs of a time of doubts and renunciations
where noises drown out words
and with many mirrors we distort life.
Longing or complaint is of no use to us,
nor the touch of disdainful melancholy
we put on as a sweater or tie
when we go out on the street. We barely have
what we have and that's enough: the space of
concrete history that belongs to us, and a tiny
territory to live it. Let's stand up again
and let everyone's voice be solemn and clear.
Let's shout who we are and let everyone hear it.
And finally, let everyone dress
as they please, and let's go!,
because everything is to be done and everything is possible.

Let's think clearly about this stillness
that spreads so many unexpected echoes;
let's think clearly and suggestive, filling us
with the specific space of right now, the space
where there is no surprise
and everything is old, and sad, and necessary.

We turned the page a long time ago, and some insist
on still reading the same page.

Maybe the secret is that there is no secret
and we have walked this path so many times
that no one is surprised anymore; maybe
we should break the routine
by making some exaggerated gesture, some
sublimity that would overturn history.

Maybe, also, with the little we have now
we don't know how to use it properly; who knows!

The water wheel turns very slowly
and years, or centuries, pass until the water
rises to the highest peak and, glorious,
declares the brightness throughout all realms.
Very slowly then descend
the buckets to collect more water.
That's how history is written. Knowing it
can't surprise or disappoint anyone.

Too often we still turn our eyes
and the gesture betrays anguish and weaknesses.
Longing, voracious, sucks our gaze
and freezes the core of our feelings. Of all
solitudes, this is the darkest,
the most fierce, and persistent, and bitter.
It's good to know it and, on the other hand,
to think of a bright and possible future.

Who but all - and each in turn -
can create from this current limits
the space of light where all winds exalt,
the space of wind where every voice resonates?
Publicly and with all the law of evidence.
We will be what we want to be. In vain
we flee from the fire if the fire justifies us.

Neither places nor names nor enough space
to replant the grove, nor any river
that can reverse its course and lift our bodies
above oblivion. We all know well
that there is no open field for any return
nor a furrow in the sea in times of danger.
Let's place stone signs on the paths,
concrete signs, of deep fullness.

We will share mysteries and desires
of very noble and secret origin, in the space
of time that someone will allow us to live.
We will share projects and worries,
pleasures and sorrows with extreme dignity,
water and thirst, love and heartbreak.
All this together, and more, must give us
the secret composure, the desired clarity.

In the key of time and with much suffering.
Behold how we can win the battle
that we have been fighting for so long, intrepidly.
In the key of time and perhaps in solitude,
accumulating in each one the strength
of all together and projecting it outward.
Furrow after furrow through the sea of each day,
step after step with the will of dawn.

Neither a luxurious east wind, nor a
solemn west wind. It's better to know
that there are no great mysteries, nor a bird
with immense wings to protect us; nothing
that so many times have proclaimed
with a unanimous voice dark prophecies.
Let's put our hand over hand and the years
will give hardness to each gesture.

We preserved from the wind and oblivion
the integrity of some spaces, of some projects
where we all saw each other grow and fight together.
And now, what dark rejection, what laziness
damages the impulse of renewed fury
that almost made us abandon the fight?
From the depths of the years, a bubbling
call, the light of an expectant and lush time.

We will turn silences into gold
and words into fire. The skin of this return
accumulates the rain, and the efforts
erase privileges. Slowly
we emerge from the great well, upwards,
and not sheltered from any disaster.
We will turn old pain into love
and we will solemnly pass it on to history.