Obrint sendes el fum
són als teus ulls
els teus ulls cremant
ofegant en fragilitat el nucli
Les teves celles
celles les teves són
la trobada de les muntanyes
en les nits que es fan llargues i fosques.
Venes són aspirant el dia
al balcó les hores el sol morirà
i aquesta guitarra treballadora
fent al cor solcs de vent
esbufegant la humanitat
a qui se li està furtant
el producte de la seva comesa
i de la lliure originalitat la força.
Mai és tard,
és nostra la qüestió,
allò que absorbim volarà
lliure per a escollir el treball
les condicions
i per a treballar la llibertat.
Qui li posa mesura al mal
que d’aquest fum ha de sortir?
Qui ha d’atrevir-se a redoblar el temps
per acabar sent llavor
i la obligada mà,
que de la terra l’arrossega.
Aigua Clara. Poeta
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