Poetry is faithful to a certain form of writing, as evidenced by the Deficiencies (1980) and the ten books that follow. Tere Irastortza is an atypical writer, who gets the classic poetry of grief, who doesn't know how to write flat. Or maybe its lyric looks flat, but it's not prose either. That’s why, like in stories, this book always encourages you to move forward, even if you know you’ll only get to the starting point. However, the journey will help you to sort ideas and share a universal pain: that of those who have left, before all this time.

I liked Llenaba the world (Pamiela, 2015), because I like this kind of poetry, and I envy those who are able to get me out of impossible loves: “How many things we have never imagined/ enjoying each other,/…) we could lie down together/ every night and in the morning wake up/ we could fold together the sanded clothing/ and how many seconds we have lived,/ those that even now imagined will not be able to catch/ never.” The book is a delight in rhythm, the celebration goes through the lens, and it has unexpected expressions, it plays with the bitterness of language. Your voice is accurate, but there are flowers everywhere: “And in kitchens where the future evaporates boiling, you hear the absence of air because of the impossibility of passing.”

Compared to anecdote, Tere Irastortza prefers to speak deeply. And compared to the superficial, it has turned the world into a small poetic essay on the issues that filled: love, time, death. They all come together in a very great vitalism.

And they confuse what was between so many sorrows, what could not be, and eternity itself. Everything that comes from the earth to heaven and again to the earth seems incomprehensible, but equally stimulating. Everything will end, of course. What I had done over time sang pages by page. When talking about man, whether it be Karmele Igartua's disease (1959-2010), it is not surprising how the writer speaks as if there were no limits, as if there were no time, as if each could guess his destiny: “I wanted to be outside,/ and I am.” This book shows that corruption transforms beauty, and that the end can be a restart or a lesson in depression. Irastortza turns around the conventions, and although the form of poems is almost always one and almost always orthodox, the underlying meaning is that of the movement of life, of the mambo that needs to dance: “It was us (…)/ they knew to jump out of hand/ two girls”. n