Once, I formed an Avatar. He didn’t resemble me,
was quite different in shape, in mood, and guts.
I made him discover the world, go from town to town.
I made him pretend he was the closest friend
of this coward clown.
In one of our adventures, we started in Parnell Square,
on the apotheosis of international drinking:
Saint Patrick’s Day.
I wished to find myself in the streets of Dublin
while gallivanting around
a continent, a country, a town.
I force him through the parades,
made friends with leprechauns,
smoke from shamrock pipes.
To green beer we felt drawn.
In this festivity, in O’Connell Street,
where some find the nadir of boozing history,
we heard people’s stories,
the chronicles of the most bizarre events,
heterodox mixtures, remedies, and faints.
Surrounded by strangers, we let them fool us.
To the cry of “Erin go bragh”
we danced, we played the pipes,
we jumped, we waved the Irish flag.
Among the crowds, the cheering was felt,
we turned our drinks bubbling
through the hops, the splash, the craze,
completely unaware of the lacuna
our memory would have the next day.
Once, I formed an Avatar. He didn’t resemble me,
was quite different in shape, in mood, and guts.
I made him discover the world, the tactile reality,
the one I’m depriving myself of,
the one I have no courage to seek.