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A Francisco Brines

It seems that it is I to whom it draws near,
who walks tall around my legs,
resting its skin against my chest,
when they draw near, the memories,
those somnambulist cats of time
who keep watch together
like spoken words
fallen on the white
tablecloth of those parties.

Where is memory,
behind what heartbeat does it rise
to show its face,
the treasure it carries in its undereye circles
of lost songs, of promises
that launch us suddenly somewhere else?

My history is not a book, like you say,
it is the rounded corner of a page,
because to think also of what I have not been
defines me more exactly
by choices
or presentiments,
because there are verses that never get written
and the loyalty I have to poetry:
it is too weak,
it respects not even nostalgia.

Forgive me. Do you remember
the game of growing up alone,
of a voice that calls you by your name?
Life does not betray, it only exists
in a different way than what was expected
and it is fair that it takes care of itself. I summon it
when I feel like wasting it.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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Book II
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