On my own I left such a gale
Of thin fatherland for a world not mine
An exile beginning in green divine
Terminating in black ink veil

To throw the spear I fail,
once in a while across some land I stride
as I walk I am empty yet full inside
of glances, of bones and routine detail

Maybe I'll return since they now forbid me to
for thinking aloud and accumulating as mine
a quarter century in the fog I move through.
Serene yet in my voice I pine

In this jungle I understand it's true
The world is wide and yet not mine

—David Valjalo

translated by María Isabel Silva Hurralde & William Gillespie


Los Poetas y al General

Los libros sin espinas