                    Sé de tu, vida, de passos rancs.
                Conec de tu, mort, d´esgarrapades negroses mal guixades
                i crits somorts a mitjanit.
                He viscut amb tu, malaltia,
                la desfeta dels tènues delits
                embolicats amb llençols blancs dins la terra argilosa.

                Em sé efímer,
                un ningú que no pot fer cap tracte digne,
                ni alçar-me.
                Dir amén, capcot,
                malbaratant l’aixopluc de la claror.

                Entre els llavis tallats
                tinc cridar que cap ésser mereix de la mort obligada.
                Cap ésser mereix del turment incert,
                d´oblits, de records bords i mal dits.
                A les mans,
                aplegar que tampoc sóc mereixedor de la vida donada
                si no puc triar
                la sola gota d´aigua per a la set imposada.

               I know about you, life, with hobbling steps.
               I know about you, death, with black badly-marked scratches
               and weak cries at midnight.
               I have lived with you, illness,
               the defeat of the faint delights
               wrapped in white sheets in the clayey soil.

               I know I am ephemeral,
               a nobody who cannot make a decent deal,
               or even stand up.
               Say amen, crestfallen,
               squandering the refuge of clarity.

               Between chapped lips
               I must shout that no living being deserves the forced death.
               No living being deserves uncertain torment
               of forgetfulness, of bastard and wrongly expressed memories.
               In my hands,
               I can state that neither am I worthy of life given,
               if I cannot choose
               a single drop of water for the imposed thirst.

Corona