THE LIBRARY OF THE BLIND Poem by Juan Manuel Roca

Entranced, at their tables of mahogany,
Some blind people go over the books like a piano,
The white books that describe
The Braille flowers of remote perfume,
The tactile night that caresses their fingers,
The mane of a colt amidst the rushes.
A scattering of words enters through the hands
And takes a sweet journey to the ear.
Bended over the paper's snow
As if hearing the galloping silence
Or almost looking into the amazement, they caress the words
Like a musical instrument.
The evening falls from the other side of the mirror
And in the silent library
The steps of the night bring rumors of legend,
Rumors that reach the book's banks.
Back from the amazement
the words still vibrate in their remembering fingers