A secret

Siempre he querido saber que se siente que te escriban un poema. Pero no un poema hecho por agradar. No de alguien que no escribe, y que solo me quiere asombrar. Hablo de un poema sincero y espontáneo. Uno de esos que se escriben en soledad, y sin intenciones de ser leído. Uno de los que se guardan en una hojita amarilla y rota manchada de cafe. Con la letra de quién no pretende escribir bonito. Y se encuentra con los años casi olvidado al fondo de un cajón. De los que esperamos nunca sean leídos por quienes los inspiraron. De esos que son escritos cuando no queda de otra. Cuando el sentir te abruma, y solo puedes intentar expresarlo en palabras.

I've always wanted to know what it feels like to have a poem written to you. But not a poem made to please. Not from someone who doesn't write, and who just wants to amaze me. I'm talking about a sincere and spontaneous poem. One of those that are written in solitude, and with no intention of being read. One of those kept in a small yellow and torn sheet stained with coffee. With the handwriting of who does not intend to write beautifully. And he finds himself over the years almost forgotten at the bottom of a drawer. Which we hope will never be read by those who inspired them. One of those that are written when there is no other option. When the feeling overwhelms you, and you can only try to express it in words.