Joan Margarit

Liberty is the reason for living,
we used to say, we dreamers, when students.
It’s the reason of the old, we now say, for a change,
their only sceptical hope.
Liberty is a strange journey.
It began in the bull-rings
with chairs in the sand
in the first elections.
It’s the danger, mornings, in the metro,
it’s the newspapers at the end of the day.
Liberty is making love in the parks.
Liberty is when dawn breaks
on the day of a general strike.
It is dying free. It is the medical wars.
The words Republic and Civil.
A king leaving by train to go into exile.
Liberty is a bookshop.
Travel without papers.
The songs that are forbidden.
A form of love, liberty.