The Taste of the Waters

by Eduardo Bechara Navratilova (Colombia)
translated by Margaret Randall

Throughout our lives we die from time to time
and must go on in spite of death.

That slow departure leaves vortexes
in our gut,
steals something of what we have built
from childhood,
and reminds us how fragile the bark is
on any tree born to the world.

We also suffer some births
reminding us
of our first airplane ride,
the first time we scored a goal
or bestowed a kiss,
when someone parted
their own lagoon
or we discover some seeds
scattered in astonishment.

After those deaths and births
the taste of water remains in our mouths.

Which do we savor at the first birth?

Which burns at the final death?