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To be here, for years, on the earth,
with the clouds that arrive, with the birds,
suspended in fragile hours.
On board, almost adrift,
closer to Saturn, more distant,
while the sun goes round and pulls us
and the blood runs on in its ephemeral universe
more sacred than all the stars.

To be here on the earth: no further
than a tree, no more unexplainable,
lithe in autumn, bloated in summer,
with what we are or are not, with the shadow,
the memory, the desire, till the end
(if there is an end) voice to voice
house after house,
whether who gains the earth, if they gain it,
or who hopes for it, if they wait for it,
sharing at each table the bread
between two, between three, between four,
without forgetting the leftovers of the ant
that always travels from remote stars
to be present at the hour of our supper
although the crumbs are always bitter.


Eugenio Montejo
Translated by Peter Boyle

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