Ya uno sólo tiene derecho a muy pocas cosas / Guillermo Sucre

You barely have any right to anything anymore

You barely have any right to anything anymore
     I know or something lets me know that I can’t speak about happiness

     I abandoned my house and I haven’t gone back
now it’ll be covered in vines and in that patio no fire or hand to light it
one day it’ll be erased by the rains and I won’t be there to pick it up again
     (what makes us leave and how can we leave)

     How could you even mention the word that needs shelter fidelity
to be real
     But I know or think I know that happiness exists right there
where it doesn’t exist
     that keeping the warmth of its absence prepares (if) not its gleam
its limpidness
     This is how I can’t speak about happiness but I can be quiet
in it
     travel its silence the vast memory of not having it

     Happiness I now realize isn’t a topic for a speech
but rather the speech itself
     a speech that always separates itself from its topic or that after
being written discovers
it has to be written again

En el verano cada palabra respira en el verano (1976)

{ Guillermo Sucre, Conversación con la intemperie. Seis poetas venezolanos, selección y prólogo de Gustavo Guerrero, Barcelona, España: Galaxia Gutenberg/Círculo de Lectores, 2008 }

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