"One way or another" --- Who commanded me to tear down the doors to my own pride?

One way or another,
The moment permitting,
Able to say what I think at times,
And otherwise saying it poorly and jumbled,
I keep writing my poems without wanting to,
As if writing weren't something made up of gestures,
As if writing were something that happened to me
Like the sun outside shining on me.

I try saying what I feel
Without thinking about what I feel.
I try fitting words to the idea
Without going down a corridor
Of the thought to find words.

This I feel, and much more...
And this I write,
Knowing perfectly and not without seeing
That it's early morning
And the sun, though still not showing its head
Over the wall of the horizon,
May already be seen with its fingertips
Clawing the top of the wall
Of the horizon, full of low-lying hills.