They arrived at the gallop,

Solider from a distant land.

Iron in their gaze,

hearts of gold.

They asked after the water

of a strange spring

for their wounds.

They were bodyguards to a treasure.

And nobody knew how to answer.

Maidens offered them

their ardent breasts.

But they did not see them,

their eyes were of iron.

They carried on at the gallop,

they were looking for a fatherland.

Some were driven mad

as they looked at a pale map.

They promised to return,

they promised to return on the morrow.

When is the morrow?

I do not know, my love.

No one knows.

The water which flows down to the sea

must return through the air.

The salt stays there,

thirst grows here.

The trees beg

the rain from the clouds

as they pass

lifting up their crown of boughs,

they want to shout out its name.

But who can recognize

a cloud in the sky?

The paths multiplied

as they went,

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 on their swords.

No path would take them back again.

All paths led away.

The morrow, when is the morrow?

I do not know, my love.

No one knows.

The morrow, when is the morrow?

There’s no use, my love, in looking outwards.

The morrow, when is the morrow?

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 a 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 light up certainty,

and clarity is alike when you have need of it.

Its brilliance sometimes casts doubts

and moves the deepest convictions.

Have you never felt

the galloping of soldiers in your breast?

What strange power made them appear?

Father, give me your blessing,

at the moment of farewell.

Each soldier

carried a song

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 farewell.

IV

All of sudden

a man’s voice was to be heard

it was a prayer,

it sounded like a lament.

Beside a tree

the voice was to be heard, saying:

Mother, miña mae, mamma,

madre, ma mère, mamá,

with your clear voice,

as you were washing in the river

singing, your voice

gave succour to 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,

the girl cousins and the skirts.

The cherries had already begun to stain

Nunc et in hora, ora pro nobis,

Now and at the hour of our death, pray for us,

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 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 toward him:

On a distant horizon

two suns drew near to each other

blinded him when they met.

May my friends go on

with that first dance.

Someone is waiting for me further away still,

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 at the gallop,

they were looking for a fatherland.

Some were driven 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 should have none.

We come from the Land of the Night

finding our way through a dream

lying in wait in this starry woodland

in search of a kindly clearing

where the memory can dwell on.

And a spring 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,

by God, let them kill her.’

Far away a woman,

joy and torment,

looked at the path.

Eyes the colour of the wind,

memory and desire at the one time:

His breast 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 thinking

as I return.

Whilst he returns.

They arrived like the night

lighting up the stars.

They fill the sky.

But the eyes are distracted, ah me,

they are distracted by the comet

which throws the firmament into confusion.

Dark and sleeping planet,

I have a presentiment that when

your light leaves me

the silent cold of

an apparent stillness

will wrap itself around me.

They left with the morn

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

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 with the morn

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 at the one time.

VI

The narrator is thinking our loud:

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 line of the horizon

but condemned to the nostalgia too

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, soldier

Will they return

in a gallop of tanks or of ships?

When is the morrow?

Have you never felt

the galloping of horses

in your chest?

What strange power

made them appear?

Father, give me your blessing

at the moment of farewell.

They do not take good note of

the song of the solitary bird.

VII

So sad to leave

if you leave your soul behind.

Sad, sadder even,

to stay behind waiting,

Never say goodbye to me,

say your prayers for me.

Let us build up three altars

Mysterious God

Red rosary of psalms

We call on You

Where the spring will burst forth

Your wedding ring

Balsam 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 their realising that 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 balsam,

moon dust in the sea.

VIII

All of a sudden a wonder

in the midst of the forest

hidden amongst the scrub

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

that the poem traced out:

‘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

keeps steady the promise for me

that your light will envelop me.

I dream of the sea.

I listen to its sound.

That conch

hanging from your neck

keeps steady the promise for me

that your light will envelop me.

I dream of the sea.

I listen to its sound.

That conch

hanging from your neck

keeps steady the promise for me

that your light will envelop me.

I dream of the sea.

I listen to its sound.

That conch

I dream of the sea.

Tomorrow there will be sorrow

when they return

at nightfall,

Like dreams cut open

wounds will have grown in the orchard,

and a sign in the sky

will give back 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

Far away from home in the forest

a caress.

The morrow, when is the morrow?

I do not know, my love.

No one knows.

The morrow, when is the morrow?

There is no use, my love, in looking outwards.

The morrow, when is the morrow?

If I cannot see the light of your eyes.

The morrow, when is the morrow?

I do not know, my love.

I do not know.

They still felt

the heat in the their hands

but the desert wind

had burned up their eyes

and the blood had burned

out the shine

of their swords,

No path would take them back again.

All paths led away.