It’s possible that those who greet you
are also alone, that they don’t have
either visitors or absences.
Miguel Méndez Camacho
To travel:
open your wings against the wind.
Pack your suitcase
a secret pleasure
a bit of fear
a bouquet of violets and insomnia
the lit lamp.
To bid farewell to what you leave behind
and the kiss received on arrival has another face:
colors of a new home
the outline of other trees
different sounds
the surprise of the rain.
The postcard that you never send
the light of January or of November
the road from the air
the anguish in a bonfire
scattered scenes
reunited
the sound of leaves in memory.
To travel is to move out of oneself
(as a poet said)
to extend other hands
hide the silence
answer the eyes that greet you.
To laugh at the light that begins
to move away from one side and approach the other
with a burning look.
Translated by Lawrence Schmid