The flight of the crane Poem by Lucía Estrada

The flight of the crane

crosses a sky of ashes

it guesses the first things as it rises

black lines
cleave the black air

a closed alphabet

its dead trees

reappear

roots raising cathedrals

songs of a single stone
that my hands translate

I was born
not to lose
a movement in its writing

its priests are an unrepeatable fog

they open the flame

they tread on

they disappear