Who will the poet fight for?
Who shall fight, if not the poet.
Those who do not sing, perhaps?
Or maybe those who do not laugh, those who do not dance?
No. Not them.
But the poet has returned to fight for us,
for all of us who feel the tide rising from within,
for all of us who make a gift out of happiness
and, with balanced patience, retire ourselves
always into a hidden palace,
into a woman, a landscape, a book.
The poet came back in the name of love for the few,
at last detached from the eternal hatred that flows too fast,
and in the slowness of these words,
words reborn into the cup of the New Hope,
he shall gently reveal to anyone what is theirs.
He will give to each what belongs to each one
as he will take away from the void what was never his to have.
With the same love that only the afternoon understands in its warm light
he will bathe our hands tainted in ash,
he will clean our neglected memories,
he will grant time to what demands reproduction and needs of the future.
The poet came to stay,
he came like the sea, like the resting death,
valiantly struggling to introduce Poetry into the city,
into the lighted night, the last
chance for men to exit from between two worlds.
He shall fight, he will – he is already fighting –,
for those who do not lament the infinite sound of the birds,
for those who love without fear, without limit, and shout their love
beyond the black corners and the deep moorlands.
For the light when slowly softens,
for the sheer pleasure of recreating the word,
for the sole reason of blurring destinies,
for the love and only the love to all that shimmers,
for everything that drifts into its own light.
And the day will come when everyone knows they live
because someone fought for them.
The day will come, I can feel it, when no one,
not even the stones,
are entitled to doubt the meaning of his existence.
And all of them will also posses the proper words.