By Jordi Llavina Murgadas
Translated by Anna Crowe
You know you have lost the last few hands,
but in life, luck is a mystery.
And it is like when you say that your hands are split
and it is not just the skin that is split.
Brutish by manner, slippery, a brother of the poor,
Those who never know where they will awake.
Now you feel a naked existence, and you collect the leftovers
from what you have been, despite never doing a eulogy.
You are, more than ever, your hands, and skin
to warm yourself by the fire, along with the joy of writing.
Do you see, in the mirror, an old man in training?
It is also the image of a free spirit.
A bellicose heart made you, along with hope
—that which is always far and is approaching.