Beyond Reality - Watty winner in Spanish

Chapter II

I peer the light-yellow walls of the classroom as I try to focus my thoughts, striving for assimilated knowledge from the previous night. Bécquer? Baudelaire? Hemingway? García Márquez? No. I know.

I halt for a second thinking about that poem so... So everything. I cannot find any specific adjective in my mind that describes it but I must say, it is one of my favorites.

Students await in silence for my answer. I breathe deeply and I stare at a yellow spot, lost in that big yellow wall in front of the classroom. I am motionless.

"I want you to know

One thing.

You know how this is:

If I look

At the crystal moon, at the red branch

Of the slow autumn at my window,

If I touch

Near the fire

The impalpable ash

Or the wrinkled body of the log,

Everything carries me to you,

As if everything that exists,

Aromas, light, metals,

Were little boats that sail

Toward those isles of you that wait for me.

Well, now,

If little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly

You forget me

Do not look for me,

For I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,

The wind of banners

That passes through my life,

And you decide

To leave me at the shore

Of the heart where I have roots,

Remember

That on that day,

At that hour,

I shall lift my arms

And my roots will set off

To seek another land.

But

If each day,

Each hour,

You feel that you are destined to me

With implacable sweetness,

If each day a flower

Climbs up to your lips to seek me,

Ah my love, ah my dear,

In me all that fire is repeated,

In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,

My love feeds on your love, beloved,

As long as you live it will be in your arms

Without leaving mine."

Instantaneously, I discover that while I was reciting this poem, imagining it on that yellow wall, feeling it with such fervor, the rest of the students and the professor were listening to me. They were indeed with much amazement because when my mind and myself returned to the classroom, I notice everyone looking at me with their mouths wide open. Professor Thompson starts applauding too emotionally and students imitate her but with much less euphoria. I'm so ashamed. Why are they even applauding? I did not create that poem... I just recited it.