Con todo gusto asisto a la nueva cita de Club de Poesía (ver aquí), promovida por 
El poeta emprendió su viaje, que intuía sería sin regreso. "Ligero de equipaje", como había escrito, lo dejó todo, menos el dolor.
Caminó por tantos senderos duros y penosos; descansando apenas en el vagón de un tranvía abandonado, con su pequeña maleta de almohada y una cobija de intemperie. Así había sido su vida. A su recuerdo volvió como una herida, Leonor, y vio a su dolida madre presente.
"Caminante no hay camino, / se hace camino al andar": ¡qué destino el que ya había vivido en su poesía!, caviló en medio de su fiebre.
Presintió la muerte como un camino difuso, como si entrara en la neblina de un invierno interminable, y cerró sus ojos para encontrarla en el sosiego deseado.
The poet set out on his journey, which he sensed would be one of no return. "Light of baggage", as he had written, he left everything, except the pain for his land.
He walked along so many hard and painful paths; resting barely in the wagon of an abandoned streetcar, with his small suitcase as a pillow and a blanket of bad weather. Such had been his life. To his memory he returned like a wound, Leonor, and saw his grieving mother present.
"Walker there is no path, / one makes the path by walking": what a destiny he had already lived in his poetry, he mused amidst his fever.
He sensed his death as a diffuse path, as if he were entering the mist of an endless winter, and closed his eyes to find it in a desired calm.
Gracias por su lectura. Thank you for reading.
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
