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Miguel Hernández
Miguel Hernández (1910-1942)

Perhaps

Perhaps now, of their own volition,
men adorn some serene country treeline
with the carob, the beech, the oak, the pine,
that will supply the timber for my coffin.

Now, perhaps, the lumberjack battles
and works it with murderous blows,
and, perhaps, along the slope of the road
it stands bleeding then resounding falls.

Now, perhaps, he reduces it to geometry,
to flat planks, he who readies
the last refuge of all those now alive.

And certainly, not perhaps, and for eternity
the dark earth is ready
to receive my definitive goodbye.