Un grupo forte
de homes de negro
con pasamontañas
é quen de untar gloria
na mediocridade
uniformes
arengan de altura e territorio
de monótonas columnas
e explanadas militares
Porén
No caos da diversidade
florece unha humanidade
No seu máximo explendor
Quen é o outro, sucio e pobre
que tanto incomoda
como podemos pecharlle a porta
se igual que nós leva un poeta
cargado de dor e esperanza
E eses nenos rebentados polas bombas
non son acaso as nosas fillas
como podemos aquí sentados
non cubrir o noso chan co sangue acedo
Dos ollos desolados?
Hai un poder novísimo
que logra camuflarse
entre as herbas das infusións
e vestirlles pasamontañas
aos desamparados
Balaclava
A powerful band
of men dressed in black,
their faces hidden behind balaclavas,
can somehow make mediocrity
look glorious
Uniforms
chant the praises of height and territory,
of monotonous columns
and military squares
And yet,
in the chaos of diversity,
humanity blossoms
in all its splendour
Who is this other,
dirty and poor,
who makes us so uncomfortable?
How can we close the door on them
when, just like us,
they carry a poet
laden with pain and hope?
And those children
blown apart by bombs—
are they not, after all,
our daughters?
How can we sit here,
and not cover our ground
with the bitter blood
of our desolate eyes?
There is a brand-new power
that knows how to camouflage itself
among the herbs in our infusions,
and place balaclavas
upon the defenceless.
abel abilheira 