Galloping they arrived
soldiers from a distant land.
Iron in their gaze,
hearts made of gold.
They asked for water
from a strange spring
for their wounds.
They guarded a treasure.
And nobody knew how to answer.
Maidens offered them
their ardent breasts.
But they could not see
as their eyes were made of iron.
They continued to ride,
they were looking for a fatherland.
Some went mad
as they looked at a pale map.
They promised to return,
they promised to return tomorrow.
When is tomorrow?
I do not know, my love.
No one knows.
Water which flows to the sea
must return by air.
The salt stays there,
thirst grows here.
The trees beg
the rain from the clouds
as they pass
They lift up their glasses,
they want to shout its name.
But who can recognize
a cloud in the sky?
The paths multiplied
as they went by,
friends set off
in different directions.
They could still feel
the warmth in their hands,
but the desert wind
burned away at their eyes
and the blood
burned away
at the shine of their swords.
No path would take them back again.
All paths led away.
Tomorrow, when is tomorrow?
I do not know, my love.
No one knows.
Tomorrow, when is tomorrow?
There’s no use, my love, in looking beyond.
Tomorrow, when is tomorrow?
I do not know, my love.
I do not know.
II
Each soldier
carried a song.
I shall sing what
my silent brother
said,
he was the youngest,
The voice from within:
‘Ground dust
Tender sand
Illuminated ray
directed at my soul.
The clear moon
Sacred night
Calm cloud
of the horizon.
Distant star
to last but one day
Sweet sadness
Melancholy’
Each soldier
carried a song,
each song their prayer,
each prayer a wish
and a common chorus
which they thought together in unison:
‘May my justice be that of the strong.
May my strength be of the just’.
III
Light does not always illuminatecertainty,
and clarity is alike when you have need of it.
Its brilliance sometimes casts doubts
and moves the deepest beliefs.
Have you never felt
the galloping of soldiers on your breast?
What strange power made them appear?
Father, give me your blessing,
at the moment of saying goodbye.
Each soldier carried a song
each song their prayer
each prayer a wish
and a common chorus
which they thought together in unison:
‘May my justice be that of the strong.
May my strength be of the just’.
Father, give me your blessing,
at the moment of saying goodbye.
IV
All of a sudden
a man’s voice was heard
it was a prayer,
it sounded like a lament.
Beside a tree
he was saying:
Mother, miña mae, mamma,
madre, ma mere, mama
with your clear voice,
as you were washing in the river
singing, your voice
nourished my throat.
The month of May in the chapel
dedicated to the ardent Fatima.
Ora pro nobis, ora pro nobis.
It was almost night on the way back,
fear of wolves, and murmuring
Ora pro nobis,
kissing,
Ora pro nobis,
female cousins and skirts.
The cherries had already begun to stain
Nunc et in hora, ora pro nobis,
now that the lamp
which burns in my chest
is going out.
Now and at the hour
of the night with no dawn,
how I need them.
How I need them here
and now the lips
which once with sweetness
said my name.
All the lips that I loved.
May my friends go on
with that first dance.
If there is someone waiting for me far away
another will come along with my face.
Even more eager.
Morning star.
His lament was a song.
The song was a way
of offering up his soul.
He lived the moment of his death,
He saw it come:
on a distant horizon
two suns drew near each other
and blinded him when they met.
May my friends go on
with that first dance.
Someone is waiting for me from afar,
morning star.
Ora pro nobis
Ora pro nobis
Ora pro nobis
Ora pro nobis
Ora pro nobis
Ora pro nobis
Ora pro nobis
They carried on galloping
they were looking for a fatherland.
Some went mad
as they looked at a pale map.
Gently
from the very highest point
he sang out
as a lone bird,
gently:
‘Your fatherland is the air
which is my fatherland.
I have no flag
you shouldn’t have one.
We come from the Land of the Night
finding our way through a dream
in this starry woodland
in search of a kind clearing
where the memory can dwell on.
And a source of light and silence
where my sister would have no fear
as the romance went:
‘The heron complains
about the ill fortune
that never allows it
to enjoy the heights.
If so many hawks
attack the heron,
my Lord, let them kill her’.
V
Far away a woman,
joy and torment,
looked at the path.
Eyes the colour of the wind,
memory and desire simultaneously:
His chest was
a castle of steel
and a conch
hung from his neck.
Take this gift, he said to me,
because I want
you to dream of the sea
and to hear the sound
of my thoughts
as I return.
While he returns.
They arrived like the night
lighting up the stars.
The sky is full of them.
But the eyes go, ah me,
they go with the comet
which throws the firmament into confusion.
Dark and sleeping planet,
I have a feeling that when
your light leaves me
the silent cold of
an apparent stillness
will wrap itself around me.
They left at dawn
stealing dreams.
Bit and spur.
This life that I have lived seems to me
a long period of waiting
to find you.
Don’t be in a hurry to leave,
don’t go,
let the happiness inside me
of being within me
last longer
leaving me a prisoner
and with honey in my mouth.
They arrived like the night
lighting up the stars.
They left at dawn
stealing dreams.
Bit and spur!
Why don’t they come back with the sun
with the radiant midday sun?
Why don’t they come back?
Memory and desire simultaneously.
VI
The narrator thinks aloud:
What will become of those men?
What exactly is it they are after?
What first impulse did they follow?
What desire is it that pushes them on and on
always following
the horizon
but also condemned to homesickness
having once felt the dart
of the look of love
of those women
who dream and pray for their return?
Do they want to found a fatherland?
to mark off a territory?
Don’t they hear the song
of the solitary bird?
Knights, astronauts,
Monks, soldiers
will they return
in a gallop of tanks or ships?
When is tomorrow?
Haven’t you ever felt
the galloping of horses
in your chest?
What strange power
made them appear?
Father, give me your blessing
at the moment of saying goodbye.
VII
So sad to leave
if you leave your soul behind.
Sad, even sadder, to stay behind waiting,
never say goodbye to me,
say your prayers for me.
Let us build three altars
Mysterious God
Red rosary of psalms
We call on you
where the spring bursts forth
your alliance
balm for the wounds
We carry you with us,
Mysterious God.
How we wish that a wind-blown storm
could disorient
the compass
so that
without realising they are returning
they return
to occupy
this land and this body.
We are the salt
and we are the spring.
We are the wound and the balm,
moon dust in the sea.
VIII
All of a sudden how wonderful
in the midst of the forest
hidden amongst the undergrowth
they find a temple.
An unfinished temple,
ivy and stone within.
And, written in the lime,
they see their own story
in a spiral
that the poem traced out:
And, written in the lime,
they see their own story
in a spiral
outlined by the poem:
‘Your ending has not been written’
said the last line.
So we are free then.
We will stay here
until we have crowned the temple
and found a safe place in it
for the treasure of our dreams.
I dream of the sea,
I listen to its sound.
That conch
hanging from your neck
holds the promise
that your light will wrap around me.
I dream of the sea.
Tomorrow there will be sorrow
when they return
at nightfall,
wounds like open dreams
will have grown in the orchard,
and a sign in the sky
will return the light to the mind
of those who were driven mad by looking.
I walk the path they took.
Salt statues
crying under the rain
they cry for the lost hours
they cry for the mauve night
through which their
deeply wounded eyes had gone,
warm heart,
and a hidden caress.
Far away from home in the forest
a caress.
Tomorrow, when is tomorrow?
I do not know, my love.
No one knows.
Tomorrow, when is tomorrow?
There is no use, my love, in looking outwards.
Tomorrow, when is tomorrow?
I do not know my love.
I do not know.
They still felt
the heat in their hands
but the desert wind
had burned up their eyes
and the blood burned
away at the shine of their swords,
no path would take them back again.
All paths led away.
Poem of Amancio Prada |
You can buy the book at Fundación Juan Ramón Jiménez |
Distribution: Sonifolk |
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Ilustrations: Juan Carlos Mestre |
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