The passerby collects the moonlight

To weave more stories for the evening

And heal the darkness

That weighs heavy on the lake.

He comes, stiff hands clinging

To the little warmth in his body.

As for worry, it leaves its taste on his breath:

“You can’t be a noble immigrant

Without worries,”

He tells the air that flies around him like an angel.

He fosters some peace of mind

Whenever his misgivings betray him,

He invents joy to dispel the gloom

Of the dank and lonely days

From his soul,

And to disguise

The reproachful voice in his heart.

 

He follows his footsteps’ traces on the paths,

Afraid to lose his shadow,

And sometimes the sidewalks diverge,

So he wanders without a home…

 

He has to leave some part of himself on the paths,

His scent on the walls,

Or his senses somewhere close—

He reminds his soul of this,

Because it might forget.

 

His eyes have to memorize the landmarks here

So they can recognize these places

When he returns,

And so he won’t look like a stranger

Or seem suspect to the travelers

At night’s end.

 

He passes by, bearing his name

And his papers, which crumple

In the hands of inspectors,

Leaving behind a moment of horror

That he alone remembers

Whenever his eyes fall on that picture

Fixed in the corner of the ID card.

 

The picture no longer resembles him,

But it has preserved

The scared gaze in his years

And in his coat pocket;

It has left him confused, wandering all over.

He carries a trace of fear

To mislead it

In the darkness that’s coated with the sky’s silver,

Where his feet press down, beating the path.

He hopes the long journey will heal his thoughts of exile

And give his years the salve of oblivion.

Oblivion in turn bestows its gifts on him,

Making him forget the fear

That lurks beneath his clothes.

This is why he’ll remain

In these substitute countries

While the sting of winter burns his skin.

He’ll forget when he came here.

 

And if he has to leave,

And if his feet don’t carry him away one day,

Then he’ll pardon the places of exile

And forgive them for not severing his fingers,

For not burning his eyes with their snow.

He’ll appreciate the small house that’s hiding

On the frontiers of the last province—

A sanctuary for the trains running late

And for the small hopes

That come back with him each evening.

And the smile of the guardian of the nights

Or the words “good night” from the bus driver

Will make him more grateful.

And he’ll go to sleep, feeling healed

And reassured

For his humanity, complete,

Came to bed with him.

But he rubs sleep from his eyes when he remembers

That he’ll have to entrust the night with his body

Without knowing in what land his soul will be born

Or which rose will bloom on his grave, which will be visited

By those whom he loved in this life.

And he’ll wonder

If this will hurt him,

But still he’ll fall into slumber’s trap,

And the next day he’ll rise, carrying his crutches,

Leaving his heavy legs in their place.

He’ll fly, leaning against the wind

Like the stork, with legs

That look like small acacia trunks,

And wondering why the details of the city

Fly past him like a distant dream,

As weightless as kites

That escaped their threads,

Free now.

Nothing hurts him,

Not even his mother’s neglectfulness—that woman

Who was broken by misfortune.

He flies,

Freeing himself of everything,

Even of his wound.