Declarat amb el vent (1962)

Soñaba cun longo camiño…

Soñaba cun longo camiño,
cal triste camiño de conto.
Camiños da nenez sen fin.
Era avanzar como fuxir.

Tódolos contos eran tristes.
A nai morre, o neno parte…
Agora dou pasos na area.
O gran rastro nas costas pesa.

¡Oh cómaro e bosque profundo!
Axiña a paisaxe mudaba.
O que quería se me esvae,
topaba cos freos do mundo.

Amor que esta fora da vía.
Man que, baleira, hei de pechar,
que apertara o que non quería.
Non ten ledicia o que se soña.

Era tan só como un rumor
de abellas, canción de inquietude…
O camiño vaise na dor
e é de tarde a súa cor.

Non falta unha rara beleza.
¿Non queres pecharte, mirada,
medio cansazo e avidez?
¿Quere o desexo nova presa?

¡Grande e míudo vexo o botín
se nunha revolta me viro!
Non has de ter mai s que ata aquí.
O home ten breve camiño.

Declarat amb el vent (1962)

A long, long road I dreamed,
a long, sad road in a fairytale.
The roads of childhood have no end.
To walk there was like running away.

All the tales were full of woe.
The mother dies, the son leaves home…
Through the sand my way I take.
The long path weighs upon my back.

Oh boggy shore and darkest wood!
How quick the landscape altered.
That which I wanted gone for good,
I found the impediments of the world.

Love that is far from the path.
Hand that is empty has to close,
and now must grasp what it did not choose.
What people dream of’s far from bright.

It was no more than a murmuring
of bees, an unease that sings…
The path is lost among grievous things,
like evening light, its colouring.

A rare beauty it does possess.
Will you not close, then, ancient gaze,
half weariness, half eagerness?
Or does desire still search for prey?

So huge I see the prize, so mere,
if I turn round and look behind!
You’ll have no more than you’ve had here.
The roads of men cover little ground.

Declarat amb el vent (1962)