To Antoni Miró

Josep Piera

Like a procession of memories condemned to silence
with desperate cries they burn the trees: smoke.
Fire, a fierce orgy of ghosts,
steals me, tonight, calm and memory.
Tomorrow, the green will have an ash aftertaste.

Announcement of mourning, metaphor of nothing, words.
A man thinks about it, from the dark room,
Seeing the burning lament of the horizon.
Beside him a body-pleasure sleeps nakedness.

There is no possible tomorrow;
only the concrete moment of passion.

And that distant sea,
morose coffin of stars,
from where still raise a constant cry of joy.
Open all the impossible windows.