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in this issue
Bernardo Atxaga
Lives
Life, it seems to me,
is always longing for far frontiers;
when it's not dreaming about woods,
it's dreaming of deserts.
And September, with its red bracken,
would far rather be
snow, or a wolf,
or a vast frozen wilderness.
And the sun would like to be
a pure, sharp light
in the memory of bees.
Night, on the other hand,
longs for that primordial age
when everything was night.
That is why my heart
Says only 'Never'
Or 'Always',
And with these two words,
Alas, sums up
all its desires.
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