It is not the phrase that is most widely heard in the whiteness islands of Europe today. For his part, Itxaro Borda has written to Abaro against the hows, of those who do not give it all, of those who do not open their arms. Poems also squeeze the reader, they ask for commitment to languages, expressions, mixed image. Because it's the writing of Itxaro Borda, let's say by the way, a fresh darkness from the orthodoxy of resting, to detoxify with so much salinity. That's why those who wait will enjoy this book, and the others may also: “Whoever wants to sit wherever he wants./ With full rights.”

The initial poems appear poems of positioning, contemplation, sex, sensation: “I lie with my arms open in the bed too big/ as in a Antonioni film:/ to misery.” But little by little, social issues are being made, telling the world that intimidation, war, cruelty, all that insult is not lawful, that it's not poetry. Then he has become melancholic and has passed from Mundaka to Barcelona, and the book goes on with short lines and beautiful long-breath poems to Argin, where his friends await him, in which no traces can be left: “We have nothing to lose./ Overly heavy backpacks revive us./ Strong winds destroy our desire./ We are ready to give up./ Please let us lighten/ We will stretch the foot into the dust of the earth/ And let us not let our fingers.”

Where does the reader encompass? At least in this Itxaro Borda Christmas Eve, nowhere. This poem is open as a fist. It is a promise that with a poetic contrast one can explain the reality: “Calizos horizons./ Predictions of calcium daily life./ I look at you:/ There, Tweets,/ Ladides, Cros, Kukurrukuak/ Eta hiri-bilduaren azantz/ Garatza”. Abaro can be read in itself or in the form of condensation, as a sensation. Itxaro Borda will always leave you an open door, an incandescent nail on which to take, a portable ambiguity. I love Itxaro Borda, because it reminds me that every word is a liberation.