Dictionary, you are not
a grave, a tomb, or a coffin,
neither sepulchre nor mausoleum:
you are preservation,
hidden fire,
field of rubies, vital continuity
of essence,
language’s granary.
And it is a beautiful thing,
to pluck from your columns
the precise, the noble
word,
or the harsh,
forgotten
saying,
Spain’s offspring
hardened
like the blade of a plow,
secure in its role
of outmoded tool,
preserved
in its precise beauty
and its medallion-toughness.
Also that other
word,
the one that slipped
between the lines
but popped suddenly,
deliciously into the mouth,
smooth as an almond
or tender as a fig.

Dictionary, guide just one
of your thousand hands, just one
of your thousand emeralds
to my mouth,
to the point of my pen,
to my inkwell
at the right
moment,
give me but a
single
drop
of your virgin springs,
a single grain
from
your
generous granaries.
When most I need it,
grant me
a single trill
from your dense, musical
jungle depths, or a bee’s
extravagance,
a fallen fragment
of your ancient wood perfumed
by the endless seasons of jasmine,
a single
syllable,
shudder or note,
a single seed:
I am made of earth and my song is made of words.

translated by Ken Krabbenhoft