Friday Poem

Lost Things, Found Hopes

For Nietzsche, hope was the beginning of loss.

But we can be even more radical:
the beginning of anything is the beginning of loss.

We all lose, but some lose more slowly
than others.

‘How’s it going?’ we ask mercilessly.

‘Slowly’, we answer, without really knowing.

Losing slowly is what we call winning.

But I, who do not love losing, love to lose myself in the forest.

Especially in forests
of music and breath,
skin and bark.

by Harkaitz Cano
from: Malgu da gaua / Flexible is the night
publisher: Etxepare Institutua, San Sebastián, 2014