C’était si beau sur l’étagère de la librairie!
J’allais y capturer les mots fugaces
ceux-là tant chéris des poètes
car porteurs de l’étincelle;
il se peut qu’un oiseau,
un rayon de lumière,
le sel d’une larme,
cette clef dorée
du cœur.
Pourtant aujourd’hui seule la toile
tente, avec sa langue de fils
de me rappeler ma volubilité
The Notebook for Poems Attracts Spiders
How beautiful it was on the bookstore shelf!
I was going to capture there the fleeting words,
those so cherished by poets,
for they carry the spark;
perhaps a bird,
a ray of light,
the salt of a tear,
that golden key
to the heart.
Yet today only the web
tries, with its tongue of threads,
to remind me of my volubility.
Life keeps changing. French was once one of the languages spoken at home, as well as the language of the streets and of work; today, little by little, it is drifting away, replaced by English and Galician. That is why this poem is a necessary exercice.
abel abilheira 