Poetry traverses the earth alone,
investing its voice in the pain of the world;
it asks for nothing – not even words.
It arrives from far off at whatever hour, without warning.
It's got the key to the door.
Coming in, it will pause always to study us.
Later it opens its hand and delivers
a flower, or pebble, something secret
but so intense the heart beats too quickly.
And we awaken.
Translated from Spanish by Kirk Nesset.