Where are the words born?

(This poem was awarded in its Spanish version

 with the Argent Flower of the XIII Flowers Games of Andalusia)


It is Midday,

there is light in my room,

and my hands,

and my fingers,

are pressing keys.


Each touch

becomes a letter,

a letter on the screen.


Letters gather

forming words,

green words

without hope,

herb reaped

before born.


The Sun

instead to grow her

is burning her.


What does it matter,

we sleep well on the lawn.

It is humid and comfortable.


You can dream:

dreams have no limits.

They are not like reality

that loves disabusing you.


Where are words born?

In the mind, we suppose.

But my mind values them not

before written.


I read them with my eyes,

listen to them with my soul.


I remain quiet for a moment

to detect the message.

Do they speak to my heart?

Do they caress my feelings?

Are they, in some way,

exciting to me?


And normally they are.

They wake my pain,

they wake my glee.

They caress my skin

with gentle breeze.

Or make me fell so bored!

that I condemn them to die,

effacing the screen.


Pressing a single key

you may efface hours of life.

Nothing escapes, nothing is left.

A single touch, your world is void.


But my words were kissing me

and I caressed them.

I put in them all my soul.


I would love

the herb had never died.

I would love the herb

remained always green,

always humid.

I would love the sun

caressed her for ever.

I would love the sun

had never burnt her,

never sentenced her,

sentenced her

to die.


The sun can be gentle and mild

or cruel and merciless.

He can make you bloom

or crush you without pity.


The herb knows that.

She also knows

that without him

she cannot live.


She owns him her life

and has to pay him

with her death.


Death is just a deep sleep

from which she shall wake one day.

She shall revive

when the sun is gentle again.


But the herb ignores that

and she is afraid.

She cannot understand

the same sun who gave her the life

is killing her now,

robbing her the water,

letting her dry

in horrid agony.


She seeks not to die.

She weeps and pleads.


What an irony!


Appealing to the sun

so immensely big and hot,

so immensely ahead in the sky!

The sun cannot see the herb,

the humble and tiny herb

who desires so hard

not to die!


The sun caressed her cradle

without knowing.

With gentle spring air

he made her grow and blossom

without knowing.


And now,

always without knowing;

he is killing her,

he is burning her

with his fire.


You see

Where brought me

the first word I wrote?


A word is born.

Where it is born?

In the mind,

under your fingers,

on the screen.


You sense it,

you feel it,

you touch it.

Then you ask

to yourself:


What will it mean

for the other person,

the alluded person,

the person for whom

it is written?


Will she sense it

the same way I sense it?

Will she share my emotion?