He keeps me alive with his whisperings
about poets born long ago
and poets forced to flee for their lives
and poets catching words in flight
like wild birds!
How can it be, this survival in chains?
How can it be, this strange vision of truth?
Just look at the overseer, look, it is true
how can it be that I never really noticed before?
The one with the whip, he is dark
just like us
dark and frowning, ashamed,
that is why he lets Juan
give me gifts of syllables, words, songs
old ballads about chivalry and love, my favorites
also the one about the sailor who sings
to calm the sea
when the wind grows still
fish rise to the surface
and birds in flight pause
to listen
listen
listen …