I have written and said, and I like to repeat it, that Manel Marí is one of the most important Catalan-language poets of his generation. Manel died prematurely on January 31, 2018, and he is a friend I miss, but these are not the reasons that lead me to affirm this. That Manel Marí is a great poet of his time is confirmed by readers of his books; those who haven't read him can turn to the anthology. The nomad and the root, prepared by Carles Rebassa, on which I also had the joy of collaborating. Poetry, like music, establishes a direct connection with the parts of the brain that deal with what we don't know how to say. That's why it can't lie, and that's why, in the face of poetry, one can't lie either. Vanity, disdain, or self-serving or arrogant forgetfulness are of no use. Manel Marí's poems are there, shining brightly at all times, expanding the repertoire of what the Catalan language is capable of saying and its ways of saying it, and always challenging, until they burn in their fire, "the fireproof fragments of ready-made morals."