Enrique Banchs
A nondescript man. It was his dubious fortune
to love a woman who would not be his lover;
this story is the story of whomever,
but of all the griefs that lie beneath the moon
none is more painful. Maybe he felt driven
to take his own life. For he did not know
that the bright blade, the bitterness and woe,
were the very talisman he had been given
to achieve a page or two that will endure
far longer than the fading signature,
longer than lofty stained-glass windows. Then,
his work finished, he slipped away unseen,
a man who vanishes in a crowd of men.
He left us things time cannot contravene.
Translated by Robert Mezey and Richard Barnes
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