Poet or not, I will sing of things
Waiting on the threshold of my self.
With torches of words I’ll light
All I inherit, the world they gave me.
They are there, like embers against the night,
The old things, full of destinies,
The begging eyes of starving children
Expectant, adolescent eyes.
Galicia in me, my God, the bread they gave me
Milk, rye and sleep and dawn’s light,
The long sea road, the earth’s hearth
And this cross that measures us top to bottom.
With this breath, I will give to these things
The full drama which will take their lives:
I’ll give them faces so they can be recognised
I’ll give them words so they can understand each other.
