Joan Margarit

We all will be in the port with the Unknow
JV Foix (On Ferrater’s death)

The liturgical harmonium of the street,
Germany’s poorest organ,
took ship with those emigrating,
who brought it to the brothels of Buenos Aires.
Like a priest who has apostatized,
there it trailed about among stories
of loneliness and melancholy.
I always loved tangos. I heard them
when I was a child, on Sunday afternoons,
with my father and mother dancing
up and down the hallway of our house.
They are the voice of an epic that is lost,
with the bandoneon trailing
words that speak of guilty love.
Those who danced them in the hallway
now are only in a tango.
Strangely happy, an old man sings it
attempting a dance-step as he comes closer
with a smile to the Unknown.