For José Viñals, in memoriam

There, where the water amidst the ashes
and the captive larch groves,
in the very origin
of the words that shape rivers,
– ruffff rufff kürüf (1)-
the wind and its sound
regardless of the tongue.
There where babbling is the beginning
and the end of
memory.

It takes place where the hours fall slowly
and when walking insects draw
the rain,
where chatty drinks,
but also on the border
where everything is rushed

There are trips from where you never return
Someone else always does

(1)Kürüf (pronounced [Ku:Ru:f]): wind in Mapudungun.
Translation: Richard Bueno Hudson