In a nocturnal, fragile space
I am the bird that challenges disquiet.
In a retreat so dark it robs my breath
I’m part of stiflement that brings no light.
If, in the stillness, I listened to the tree,
I wouldn’t ever see how life flees from me,
but on the final flight, destined for the block,
the flowers of day speak words into the air.
by Miquel Bezares
English translation by Anna Crowe
Published at the magazine La Traductière no. 28