Last Friday, February 5, the municipal group of Joined Left Them Green in the town hall of Alpedrete and since we celebrate the centenary of the birth of the poet Miguel Hernández, went to be born the oriolano on October 30, 1910, exactly one year later that my father, presented a motion, so that the municipal plenary meeting alpedreteño, in addition to recognizing the figure of the poet, was urging, to whom it corresponds, so that there were annulled the charges that provoked his condemnation and even the process itself, for illegitimate, as illegitimate the Franco period was in his set, as illegitimate it is, if one purifies me, his continuity, transition by means of, this shoddy pantomime that some of them, well for ignorance, good for nastiness, dare to call a democratic system. We are not ingenuous, we knew in abundance that the PP of Alpedrete was not going to support the motion, anything that if there did the councilmen of Spanish socialist party and UNPA. His argument was that the condemnation was spreading to all the unjustly treated ones: attention!!!, earlier, during and after the war. We are not going to fall down in the pitfall of putting in the same sack a reprobate for a legitimate system like Jose Antonio Primo de Rivera, beyond the position of everyone on the death penalty, with a represalido for an illegitimate and killer government, like our poet. On the other hand the same argument they used sensu opposite when they got involved that to an Alpedrete rotunda Miguel Ángel Blanco was putting the name while we were arguing that we did not have to distinguish victims of terrorism of others. But in fact, the argument is different, they cannot honor a communist that dedicated to Dolores Ibárruri a poem as this one:
PASSION FLOWER
I will die like the bird: singing,
penetrated of pen and fortitude,
on the lasting clarity of the things.
Singing the soft hole has to take me,
stretched the soul, turned the head
towards the most beautiful handsomeness.
A woman who is an alone steppe
inhabited of steels and creatures,
it rises of froth and crosses of wave
for this municipality of handsomeness.
They give desire of kissing the feet and the smile
to this Spanish wound,
and that gesture that goes of put into mourning nation,
and that ground on that suddenly he treads
as if it was containing the ground in the footprint.
Fire lights it, fire feeds it:
fire that grows, is burning hot and excites
from the almond tree in flower of his skeleton.
To his feet, the most frozen ash becomes inflamed.
Basque of generous deposits:
holm oak, stone, life, noble grass,
you were born to give direction to the winds,
you were born to be a wife of some oak.
Only the mounts can support you
engraved you are in sensitive trunk,
sculpted in the sun of the vineyards.
The miner discovers for hearing you and for seeing you
the dull galleries of the captive mineral,
and across the ground it takes them up to your fingers.
Your fingers and your fingernails fulgen like carbones,
threatening fire even to the stars
because in half of the word you set
a blood that leaves phosphorus between his tracks.
They cry out your arms that do up to froth
on having hit the wind:
there overflow your breast and your arteries
because so many weeds are completed,
because so much anguish,
because so many miseries.
The blacksmiths sing to the sound of the smithy,
Passion flower the shepherd writes in the cayada
and the fisherman to kisses draws you in the sails.
Dark the midday,
the redeemed and expanded woman,
sunk and hurt the gazelles
they admit to the brilliancy that he sends
your incandescent, flowing candles voice.
Being burning hot with the fire of the burned lime,
speaking with the mouth of the mining wells,
woman, Spain, mother in infinite,
you are capable of producing bright stars,
you are capable of burning of only one scream.
They lose nastiness and shade tigers and prison guards.
For your voice that of the mountain ranges speaks Spain,
that of the poor and exploited arms,
the heroes full of palm trees grow
and pilots and soldiers die greeting you.
Oyéndore to beat like covering
of meridians, anvils and cicadas,
the Spanish male goes out to his door
to suffer covering guitars flatness.
Burning you will remain inflamed
on the cloudy arch of the negligence,
on the time that is afraid to exceed your life
and it touches like a blind person, under a bridge
of aged frown,
an injured and impotent violin.
Your carved force will shine eternally,
fogosamente full of twinkles.
And that one that of the jail was bitten
it will finish his crying in your hairs.
And the fact is that they are more of homenajer to another people:
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