A MAN OF HIS WORD Poem by Juan Manuel Roca
A MAN OF HIS WORD
I trace the word skin. At a feast of claws and feathers the word crow dismembers it
like a flayed beast.
I sow the word jasmine. When it's about to sprout its fragrance, the word desert
wipes it out, whisks away its sap.
I write the word eternity and a rose withers. I hurl the word bird and it spirals down,
featherless and dry.
Not even the word water remains of the word ice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/29/2026 10:53:58 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
