Here am I-breathing,
And Writing my poetry
What were you to me?
A land forgotten and remote,
a land of knights and high plateaux.
Sometimes I'll come when you're asleep,
An unexpected visitor.
Don't leave me outside in the street.
Don't bar the door!
Spring of mine, O spring of mine so white,
as yet unlived, as yet unfeasted,
alone in visions vague yet dreamt of,
how low above the poplars do you skim,
The fight is hard and pitiless
The fight is epic, as they say.
I fell. Another takes my place -
Why single out a name?
Do you remember
the sea, the engines,
and the holds full of wet dark
and that great longing for the Philippines
a lady and I
on the topic:
'The man of our time'.
I would like
My country's mine; blue and clear
above it shines the sky so bright;
at dusk gleam starry chandeliers
quenched at dawn by white daylight.
Fernandéz is killed!
is dead and buried