Pako Aristi writes this time to the seas. It contains the seventh book of poems. I and we refer to the ocean that can keep two eyes, a special poem on the depths that the hands of the fishermen can tell, the treaty on freedom motion: “I am nomadic of relationships, / I am accompanied by my friends,/ and the treatment is not faithfulness, but letting him go.”

And those seas are from Getaria, but they could be from Orio, or even from a cruel world that there is no sea. Because this book has more cruelty than simplicity, because poems make him silly, there is absolutely no question of the reader saying what he means. You can love Pako Aristi, or hate Pako Aristi. I and we are a book dedicated to sailors, not a book on the couch of the house, for a small bourgeois who makes literary critiques like a arid land.

Me and us. I'm reading like the seventh yellow wave, causing the essence of poetry in beautiful narrative poems. As I write these lines, I end the book, and as if it was the quintessence of life, it's teaching me Pako Aristi, as if I had invented a genus inherited from mysticism and bertsolarism, what's important and what's not? “Sara raised her hand as if she had understood everything,/ goodbye,/ what in the air she wrote/ the words of the pain/ did not leave her”. It speaks to me of the unjust death of a child, who intermingles with the death of a dolphin, who navigates in this ruthless and merciful book with so many waves and contradictions, and it speaks to me of the passage of time Pako Aristi, of cruelties, of winds and landscapes, and of all the simultaneous loves, to say that life is worth it, but we have to make taboos.

Pandemic has favored poetry. Pako Aristi discovers other coasts. The most subversive of our poets has once again shown us that it is the most sensitive of our poets. I and we are nothing but a metaphor. Her heart is airtight, but her soft skin is accessible. I and we are the seventh gift that Pako Aristi has given us from the watchtower of his beautiful nonconformism.