“By the mouth, the fish dies,”
says the great Joaquín Sabina,
but we, the poets,
through affection for words
or affliction by feelings
or in search of something more,
expose ourselves in ways
not even a child who was never exposed
to the rules of a less functional society
would dare to do.
We reveal what we feel,
pouring our souls into the ink,
only to be surprised later
when we are caught with intentions
in the palm of our hand.
Perhaps we need to practice silence
as a counterpart to the art
of poetry,
not to be less real,
but so that our words and letters
do not lose value
due to the irresponsibility
of those who print words
like a tropical dictatorship
that decrees, without reflection,
that love is a revolutionary act,
not knowing that it truly is,
because precisely, it can’t be imposed
and it is not rushed.