Like the Fugitive Winds
These are not poems, nor are they foundations,
even, of poems. No, these are the fragments
of myself that were lost,
like the fugitive winds,
along ancient and long-forgotten ways:
Díaz Castro, gone missing down the road
of a lengthy remembrance, gathered up
by an angel and saved
in some brief instant of despairing love!
If the poem’s no more than a bright halo
that’s placed by our blind eyes around the things
that have been dreamed, or loved amidst the darkness,
of the things that have been and that have gone,
but continue to be and never go,
of the shadows that, playing in my eyes,
have mingled with the light during my life,
I’m leaving here the halos, like the ash
of roses that once filled with their aroma
the world, which died in childhood, of some dream.
A poet or not, I shall sing the things
that on the threshold of myself are waiting.
I’ll light with torches made of words – my broad
inheritance – this world that I was given.
And there they are, like embers in the night,
the things of the past, full of destinies.
Eyes that are begging, eyes of hungry children.
Eyes that are waiting, eyes of a young woman.
Galicia in me, God, bread I was given,
the milk and rye and dream and light of dawn!
The long street of the sea, hearth of my land;
this cross that measures us from top to toe.
With this encouragement, I’ll give to things
the drama that this life denies to them:
I’ll give them faces so they know each other,
and words to make them understand each other…
Translated from Galician by John Rutherford