Thought we are still Fearful Poem by Bartomeu Fiol

For Salvador Espriu
Though we are still fearful and don't amount to much
thus knowing we are so susceptible
and are strangely incapable
of correcting ourselves as we ought,

it shouldn't make us afraid
to come to silence,
not afraid at all
to remain in silence,
decent like a stone or animal.

Savage and at once imprisoned, the word
is much more dangerous.
Like a ravishing girl
it makes us turn the corner, lose the thread.

We don't have to try to pronounce the truth,
give lessons, read the good news,
or statistics recite, well-informed
or, like someone who's triumphed in advance,
opine on the therapy, point by point.

From the pulpit we come down forever more.
Of the lectern splinters we make.
The deafening loudspeakers we've dismantled.
If need be, we'll use the language of hands.

No, we don't have to be afraid
to enter into silence.
Its house has more rooms
than our dishevelled speech.

Translated by Julie Wark