Joan Guerola Tolsà
Born in Otos, a beautiful village of Vall d’Albaida (Valencia)
You are present in the fox looking for the muscat,
also on the roads and in the farmhouse of Suagres,
such a tireless sentinel himself
which protects us from bad air.
You are present in whitewashed swallows and facades
with wrought iron balconies and railings.
I like the east on the street
and water shops in the quarry,
car horns are mixed
with cries of packers, cheesemakers or fishmongers.
Limes hang on the headland in the sun and serenity
among jasmine flowers that are born at night
and they die by day, like slate between fingers.
West blowing that burns and scratches furrows, vines and margins,
the damn speaker who grabs walls and roofs
and when he gets tired, in the middle of the night, he falls asleep with endless redness.
Until the horns sang, donkey evenings by the fire.
Afternoons talking about exile and hunger, and what we had little.
They often burst into tears.
Bells ringing, bells ringing the dead;
Formerly women at Mass at the second touch
grabbing his arm, they were no longer trotting.
Don’t forget the silences of the people,
even less than the people who move it.
Otos emotions I want to share,
these are not romances of the words I say,
explode tempered and moving feelings,
emotion that is lost, emotion that goes away without fuss,
but thus, the fountain of the heart never dries up,
for the dead have marked life as I am.