by Alberto Blanco
From lake to lake,
from forest to forest:
“Which is my tribe?”
“What is my place?”
Perhaps I belong to the tribe
of those who have no tribe;
or to the tribe of black sheep;
or to a tribe whose ancestors come from the future:
a tribe about to . . . arrive!
But if I absolutely must choose
—I tell myself—
let it be a large tribe;
let it be a mighty tribe;
a tribe in which no one
is left outside the tribe,
in which everyone—
everything and always—
has a sacred place.
I do not mean a human tribe.
I do not mean a planetary tribe.
I do not even mean a universal tribe.
I am speaking of a tribe that cannot be spoken of.
A tribe that has existed always,
yet whose existence has not been proven.
A tribe that has never existed,
but whose existence
we can even now make real.
(Thanks to my daughter Audrey for help in this translation.)