The Owners

Because we do not own anything,
not even the vague shadow of the future
that perverted our dutiful childhood.
Because we are not the owners of anything,
not even of our own pain
at which we have looked with awe so many times.
Because, without a doubt, to have is not ours,
but what is ours is to dream desperately
that we have everything at our fingertips,
of this stubborn hand that names us
with greater harshness than a surname.

We are the owners of wishing everything: what sadness.
We are the owners of fear, dust, smoke, the wind.

Copyright © 2004 Ana Valverde Osan All rights reserved
from Ithaca
BOA Editions Limited
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission