Emigdi Subirats i Sebastià

He walked among verses like one born to them,
a soul of quiet thunder,
Gerard Vergés—
one of Catalonia’s finest sons,
his voice rising from the banks of the Ebre,
a poet of the 20th century’s fading light
and the delicate morning of the 21st.

In his hands, language bloomed.
His prose: exquisite,
like silk spun in the shadows of ancient libraries.
He spoke in the tongue of lovers and sages—
his lines draped in wisdom,
his metaphors laced with desire.
For in his work, the body was no stranger—
it breathed, it longed, it loved.
There was an erotism, subtle yet vivid,
as natural as the moonlight spilling over tiled rooftops of al-Andalus.

For Vergés, the past was never distant.
He conversed with Abū Bakr,
dreamt beneath the arches of Alexandria,
and wandered the perfumed gardens of Muslim Caliphate
where poetry rose like jasmine in the night.
al-Andalus lived in him—
a lost paradise, yes,
but one he resurrected with every line,
with every sigh of his pen.

He was a man of many loves:
literature, above all,
but also art, which he critiqued
not as a distant scholar,
but as one who felt the pulse beneath the canvas.
And music, too—
he heard its rhythms in the rain,
its harmonies in human speech,
its silences as sacred as song.

A pharmacist by trade,
yet always and truly,
a poet by nature.
He distilled not only remedies,
but truths.
He gave us verses that heal,
and prose that lingers—
gentle, erudite, and fiercely alive.

Gerard Vergés—
his name still sings in our tongues,
an echo of Andalusian nights and Catalan days,
a bridge between cultures,
between mind and flesh,
between silence and song.

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