(…) To write about life and the city that pierce through the evening mists; to remember that everything would be a song if we wanted it to be, if the words and sentences had the conviction of some kind of happiness.
And why does this tree that inhabits my body write to me and summon me there when I am here, in the turmoil of shapes and colors?
Why this poem? If not to express the absence that engages presence, the emptiness and the anguish of a land that is unlearning how to be land.
Departure and not absence. The country is still the only discernible and reborn landscape. Living-ajar-here-elsewhere. Living childhood, the naked sun! The island, its dreams, its dreams, its fantasies and its drifts. The island, the too blue of its seas in the mirror of its skies.
At the end, there is a canoe… inside there are words, like a tree traveling alone in the forest, a tale thwarted by a rifle.
What if everything was just a big tree somewhere, standing in the constancy of the earth!