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
reasons
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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