Author Description

These memories or memories are intermittent and at times forgetful because that is precisely how life is. The intermittence of sleep allows us to sustain the working days. Many of my memories have become blurred when evoking them, they have turned to dust like irretrievably wounded glass. The memorialist's memoirs are not the poet's memoirs. He lived perhaps less, but he photographed much more and recreates us with the neatness of the details. This gives us a gallery of ghosts shaken by the fire and shadow of his time. Perhaps I did not live in myself; Maybe I lived the life of others. From what I have left written in these pages, the yellow leaves that will die and the grapes that will revive in the sacred wine will always emerge-as in the autumn groves and as in the time of the vineyards. My life is a life made of all lives: the lives of the poet.