The word burns, the word freezes,
set fire to paradise, extinguish hell,
Jorge Luis said it, Dante said it,
we know that for sure, now,
but we didn’t practice it,
because we don’t dare
to obliterate with edens and anathemas,
to free ourselves from gods and demons,
to wield the verb like a whip
to scourge crafty merchants
who trade the dream and the hope,
to wield the word like a feather,
bird feather that caresses the air,
calms pain, relieves sadness,
wing that takes us in flight without distances,
and poses us on the earth,
wing that protects us, wing that lifts us up.
The word is weapon and it’s projectile.
The word is shield and it’s shelter,
has its own sense and acquired value.
The word guides us, the word deviates.
The word is a garment
that hangs, that changes,
that is chosen and discarded.
The word, you saw. The word, naked.
It identifies us, it defines us.
The word is face and mask.
The word is change,
it’s taken, it’s given,
it’s taken off and made its own.
The word
carves the furrow of the idea
and germinates into new ideas,
in doubts and certainties.
And when the truth
is not enough
to set us free,
we’re left with the word.