Asturiàs is not Las Marismas. No ships, no boats, no futures sail from here. The winds billow nothing. They carry only poison, the most slowest, the most paciencia.
This poison we harvest in childrens’ hands.
They sow, we reap, en los manos, dusts of swarm of gnats, and this, this, hombre, this is how we die.
See this grey dust, el polvo, in this my hand? It is the fear, el miedo. I get to know well my death, to taste it in my snot, to lick it with my tongue.
See this stone from my pocket? It feeds the fear, it moved in my father’s lung. It swam in my mother’s tits. I drunk w great hunger.
Asturiàs is not Las Marismas.
No future sails from here.
No stone arrives from which to carve heroes.
We scrape from under the fingernails the coping stones of our childrens’ early morning deaths.
See this pebble? It has come from my pocket. It is the fear that feeds fear and begets itself the more.
It’s child, dust, caked my father’s lung.
Its father, stone, swam like an eel within my mother’s tits.
I drunk w a great hunger.
And this, this, hombre, this is how we Asturíans die.