This country without silence |Shari da Tòs|

In this land,
whose lament I carry
between my shoulder blades,
I discovered I was a daughter.
A bastard daughter,
a traitor and an enemy.

I recognise in my flashing
wrinkles
a compassion,
which translates neither
into mercy
nor sweetness.

Here, pigs are not killed
nor cages are scratched,
but children are stuffed
into cracks and corners,
and rosemary teas,
that taste of lost glories
and shipwrecked ships,
are drank.

The orange blossoms are missing
from the spring dreams,
from the dry bark.
Everything is dampened
by cries, by processions
without the solemnity
that this arid land deserves.

They are silent,
here the delicacies,
are silent,
the blessed ones
abandon themselves.

The rain does not patter
in the memories of the pastures,
the colours of childhood
do not flow in the canals.
I do not find myself
where I was,
neither the reeds nor the ravines
remember me.

The sea has lost
count of my moles.
Now they tangle and creak
under the whitish skin
that once was unusual.

Can one feel nostalgia
for a land that does not exist?
For a distorted dream?

The fervour of this chewed noise
falls silent before ears
that ignore what is known.
I am left with neither the Virgin,
nor Castilian.