like no one can successfully
push away the sea waters
—it has been said in a love
poem—nadie could
make me obey what
my living make-up doesn’t
obey, it’s not a question
of ideas but of that frothy
swell that in billions of cells
splashes inside me and in
everything that lives, the only
via is this sounding refusal,
Thoreau must have explained it
as some others did too,
but we’ve just forgotten it
in violent rituals of peace,
we lost track of that stand ye
—from Shelley—like a forest
close and mute, and that always
the fallen will have an Antigone
in Thebes and Portland as well
Translation from the Spanish