Centenary of Miguel Hernández

We are pawned the communists pawned in giving the whole possible sheen to Miguel Hernández in the centenary of his birth, and like, although there is a legend that labels us of being pathological liars, or, in words of Jorge Semprún-Federico Sánchez, of suffering a marked historical forgetfulness, we please to go, as possibly, with the truth ahead, not us quedea more I remedy that to recognize that in this recognition of the poet in all his facets: literary, personal and political, we are not alone. The practical totality of the progressive society has joined this target, which was adding to the recognition, which of fact had already produced, of the poetical quality, the recognition of his sacrifice to itself antifascist com. The tragedy of the poet oriolano caused deep feeling between those who met him, for example Pablo Neruda who dedicated this poem of the one that removed not even a comma. It reflects what we were thinking the communists does about fifty year or few ones more, and my not forgetfulness prevents me from removing only one does not even eat. Quod scripsi, scripsi
YOU CAME to me straight from the Levant. You were bringing me,
shepherd of goats, your wrinkled innocence,
the scholasticism of old pages, a smell
to Brother Luis, to orange blossoms, to burned ordure
on the mounts, and in your mask
the roughness cereal of the reaped oats
and a honey that was measuring the ground with your eyes.
Also the nightingale in your mouth you were bringing.
A nightingale spotted with oranges, a thread
of incorruptible singing, of defoliated force.
Moan, boy, in the light supervened the gunpowder
and you, with nightingale and with rifle, walking
under the moon and under the sun of the battle.
You already know, my son, how much I could not do, you know already
that for me, of the whole poetry, you were the fire
blue.
Today on the ground I put my face and listen to you,
there listened to you, blood, musician, agonizing honeycomb.
I have not seen dazzling race like yours,
neither so hard roots, soldier's nor hands,
I have not even seen anything alive like your heart
being burned in the purple of my own flag.
Eternal young man, you live, ancient proprietor,
flooded by wheat germs and spring,
wrinkled and dark like the innate metal,
hoping the minute that it should raise your armor.
I am not alone since you have died. I am with that
they look for you.
I am with those who one day will go so far as to avenge you.
You will recognize my steps between those
that will throw themselves over a cliff on the breast of Spain
squashing Caín so that he is sick to us
the buried faces.
That know those who killed you that they will pay with blood.
That know those who gave you anguish that they will see to me
one day.
That there know the damned ones that today include your name
in his books, the dámasos, the Gerardos, the children
of bitch, silent accomplices of the executioner,
that your martyrdom will not be erased, and your death
it will fall down on all his cowards' moon.
And to which they you denied in his rotten laurel,
in American ground, the space that you cover
with your fluvial crown of bloodless beam,
allow me to give them I the disdainful negligence
because they wanted to mutilate me with your absence.
Miguel, far from the prison of Osuna, background
of the cruelty, Mao Tse-tung directs
your poetry torn to pieces in the combat
towards our victory.
And murmuring Prague
constructing the sweet beehive that you sang,
Green Hungary cleans his granaries
and it dances along with the river that he woke up of the sleep.
And of Warsaw it raises the naked siren
that it builds showing his crystalline sword.
And further away the ground becomes huge,
the ground
that visited your singing, and the steel
that it defended your homeland they are sure,
increased on the steadfastness
of Stalin and his children.
It approaches already
the light to your residence.
Miguel de España, star
of devastated grounds, I do not forget you, my son,
I do not forget you, my son!
But I learned the life
with your death: my eyes were watched scarcely,
and I found in me not the crying,
but the weapon
inexorable!
Wait for them! Wait for me!