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Palm trees, Anchor Stones

The Master’s Palm Tree

They called him Master
though he had neither coat of arms nor mansion
he went around the villages with the gait of a sorrel steed
and they called him Master
he had honey bees in hives on the hillside
from Cabos de Valouta to Caldebarcas
he collected rent for early corn and late
in the parishes from higher up and below
and they called him Master
he had a bench for shelling
he threshed his crops on his stone threshing floor
and they called him Master
he loved the fresh, clear water from the well at Morada
he had the first waterwheel and two paddle wheels
he had running water on a raised trough summer and winter
he collected fees
and they called him Master
he was born the year of The Gentleman in Blue Boots
and died the year of Otero’s speech
during Easter in Padrón in 57
he was a doctor like Pondal or Castelao
and he had a practice
and still they called him Master.

The Master cured some things and others not
diphtheria and croup
he treated snake venom with a branding iron
he treated coughing and vomit
using the first volume of the fourth French edition
of The Elementary Treatise on Therapeutics
by Dr. A. Manquat, published in 1900
and the Master goes
not to celebrate the new century
nor the passing of Halley’s Comet in 1910
but it must have been then
to celebrate closing off the garden wall with a metal fence
with a nice fountain well and fancy grain bin
to celebrate his leisure and wealth
in front of the strong stone façade of his amazing house
the one built by his father’s American money
the Master planted two palm trees
and the palm trees grew, in time were
the coat of arms he never had
because José Manselle, Don Pepe,
they called him Master.

The first navigator on the River Plate
Manselle from Manselle
brought a priest for himself from Compostela
and his son the doctor with the palm trees
but Ulysses and Penelope don’t rest
after that came Camoiras and his dear son Ramón
secular republicans and modernists
when the palm trees began to produce palms
for Palm Sunday
they brought a gallery and a chimney
they brought three windows
camellias the cooperative
l’espoir.
In Laíño
the bell has long been sounding the death knell.

Strong and tall, the palm trees
bid farewell to the Americans from before
and after the war and the terror
the ones who brought nothing because they didn’t return
sent clothing and photos of the village
slides of birthdays and vacations in Mar del Plata
and ended up with no land or gardens
acaricia mi ensueño el suave murmullo de tu respirar
(the soft murmur of your sigh caresses my dreams)
only words like heartwood or buckthorn or grapevine again
my uncle Julio didn’t return either
but he brought the resurrection fest for the game of bowling
Belgrano Flores Urquiza Independencia
their bones of ash are bowling pins
Tixoliño is a barrier to the sea
boxwood Manselle heather heathland white heather Lubián
maybe maybe not
whether you get it or not doesn’t matter
here and in Coristanco
we all love our land.

Then our Master died
and after that the western palm tree died
notice of a new route for the new group of navigators
and the single palm tree was already
our Master’s big palm tree
when conch shells sounded once more
and men left to travel the sea
they learned Dutch and brought back
a lot of cheese tobacco poffertjes cakes and cursing
in terms of plants aromas Brugmansia angel’s trumpet
a little later the young couples left for Zurich in Switzerland
for Cuxhaven in Germany, on the Vieites Reisen line
for Amsterdam Paris Basauri
they took Ana Kiro and the Os Tamara band
and brought back brick and flowered bathrooms
Oliver Laxe’s eyes
and Isabel Blanco’s tears
when she received Celanova’s House of Poets prize
looking like that little girl born in Basil
in the eighteenth parish of Santa Comba
and to all of us she sang
the Internationale anthem in Galician.

Oh, Master’s palm tree
palm tree fountain
the lyrical part you hate starts here
always surrounded by toads, quarrels and cowards
fire salamanders tadpoles or spoons
in the fountains pools and puddles of the rest of Galicia
oh never-ending palm tree that grew
taller than the house and the garden and the symbols
not just in the growing season here
watching all the birds in the world
watching the star-filled parchment
rose of all roses, palm of the palm trees
weapon to combat amphibians
facing Heideggerian being and time
a bar in Lugo where Juan Carlos Mestre had coffee
although nobody remembers
y mi alma en su desierto (and my soul in its desert)
of the solitary village doctor.

Oh, palm tree
the Master’s only remaining legacy
exotic coat of arms
green shield of the Russian village.

Palm tree like Xavier Rodríguez Baixeras’
palm tree in Ribadeo
far from its sea
palm tree shade and dream
palm tree still resembling the palms in Herbón
of Pauliño Fontelao in Devalar
the palms of Xoán Rodríguez de Padrón
in nidulo meo moriar e sicut palma multiplicabo dies
(I shall die in my nest, and like a palm tree will multiply my days)
horses the hills of Xei and Buxán
love incest the deaths of Liessa and Ardanlier
palm tree facing the garden of hyssop and terebinth scenery of Zion
palm tree facing the lilies of the Song of Songs
and all the palms of Jerusalem.

Palm tree of dactyls and dates
baskets we filled
with unknown fruits like verses
the color of the Spouse’s hair in the Scripture.

The palm tree is the desert no
the palm tree is water sun distance.
Palm tree coming after the araucarias magnolias and Wellingtonians
the flowering both exotic and modern
of the countess milady’s plants.

The Master paid the five pesetas
for membership in the National Medical Union.

Palm tree before the palm tree of the new poor rich
who dream of the tropical paradise
Cuba yes in the orthodromic distance of Havana Rosalía.

Oh palm tree of the poor
you give the hut to the Blacks and the Indians
you give bread and home and a generous thirst
to Amos Tutuola eternal drinker of palm wine
palm tree of the sea of the Yorubas Yemayá
Ulla Paraguaçu sailboats Jorge Amado galleons
palm tree from where the palm tree grows
in José Martí and Guantánamo
palm tree on the islands of the Caribbean
a very different Eden than Derek Walcott’s.

Oh palm tree bearing fruit and sweet biblical palms
oh palm tree of the conquerors of earthly paradises
of unreachable landscapes and leisure
oh fertile public palm tree that grows to the height
the communal kingdom of sparrows and swallows
of my lost village.

In Laíño
the bell has long been sounding the death toll.
Palm tree you can see the Oeste Towers
in ruins black magpies wells metal filings
emptied mansions hurricanes
from your highest fortress
palm tree of sighs and whispers
of joy thunderstorms and resistance
extraordinary height celestial pilaster
of the rugged oaks of Breogán.

Palm tree who heard the flailing in the community threshing floor
the brand new threshing machine
the echoes of the one that ran for the last time
the permanent noise of coughing and wicker
the dancing layer on millstones the hydroelectric foam
the constant bubbling of the porridge of fine ground corn meal
in the house of the poor and the house of the Master.

I will die in my nest
and like the palm
I shall multiply my days.

Oh palm tree who saw for all of us
the swelling and ebbing of the tides of the sea of Iria
the paths through the marshes of Laíño
wooden slats rags sails lugsails bolt ropes
swelling scandalous
small boats dories rowboats and sloops and even galleons
that brought salt from Cais and Alicante
and in Indian summer brought you
pages from the ship’s log lost Cuban tunes
the scent of seas from the beyond
the forest of Vidal and the garden plot.

Oh palm tree who saw
the birth and death of everything
the arrival and the departure
the moment and the forever
blossoming and extinction
joyful morning songs
in the neighborhood and quickly burning firewood
no shawl for Carboeiro and Saint Sidrán
cold winter nights
when the sea at Corrubedo blusters and can be heard
in Laíño and in the Comedias Bárbaras too
where the channels full of the past
sing in the warm cradle
and the wolf hoarse prisoner howls
in the mortal trap of Fuxovedro.

Palm tree who felt the galloping of the horses from the hills
arrive and fade away
the mad Carreiras around Easter
swarms of bees swarming from pantries and beehives
spindle hands and spinning distaffs
thick smoke on haystacks and over roofs
wind in frightening gales
eucalyptus the beatles hornets
fog shadow dust and seamstresses.

Palm tree further off
palm tree beyond all borders
palm tree Panchito black as a pot
show me my defects and my errors
the just recognize the right of the poor
palm tree who saw the forest fever of the fire
burn and swell up in the world
who saw the death of the hazelnut tree in Soutela
of the swing in the giant ash tree in Albariña
of the oak in Sóñora and Conxeiro
the death of the apples in Supumares
of the birches in the stand by the mill at Penseiras
of the white broom in Cosedosa of Codeseira and Codesidos
that nobody will ever remember.

Feed me with the chaff of dry grapes
comfort me with tres en cunca apples
I suffer from love.

It was the saddest of all and painful
the night the great attack came
it’s painful to write to you while you die
because the plague also arrived
in attack mode
one insatiable Palm Sunday
voracious it was an invisible invasion
a cruel death and your horrible martyrdom.

You are the size of a palm
your breasts like full clusters of grapes.

And the Master is dead
he doesn’t have the medicine to save you
there is none in the paradise of palm trees and unused beaches
Hell doesn’t have a fiery iron to brand you
the Bible doesn’t have pine balsam
I am dark but lovely but girls of Manselle
you will die in the lap of Pondal Castelao
like the children
with diphtheria croup in their throats
Camoiras is Reboiras the republic
without bells silent abandoned.

And beyond the Oeste Towers and paths through the marsh
beyond the oaks, already dead, and the bees that left
from completely buried cornfields
more than all the paths Sarmiento walked
over walls and stone fences
the corn harvests and stone walls
came the red palm beetle
came the insect of iron
with its mortal army of larvae
to suck your blood the nectar of your deepest heart.

Your tongue is made of milk and honey my love
the promised land.

I write a palm tree while you die
unfortunate palm tree of the Master
there is no Master now
a doctor to save you from this plague
and you die alone without a friend
without general control of the natural
patrimony.
In Laíño
the bell has long been sounding the death knell
in domotic mode.
Palm by palm the bugs
destroy the tuft of the crown
the nest of the Phoenix in exegetic battle
larvae colonies open and burrow
internal galleries in your immense pilaster
invincible they devour
the fibers and secular vascular tissues
of both the new and the old testament
opportunistic bacteria and fungi
root in the wounds
accelerate and extend the decline
and death.

The beetle is purple
like when plowed and firm and resistent
the land of Bergantiños is purple.

The beetle is exotic it’s
like you
like Emilio Araúxo
with his pure poems that hear the voice of the earth.

The beetle came from the east
and where did Mao Tse-Tung come from
the powder and the magnolias
where did Uxío Novoneyra come from?
the wind comes from the east dry from opening the windows
and putting up supports in haystacks and mounds of hay.
I can see green palm branches carried by girls from Vedra and Pontevea
descending downward to the sea rimmed with pastures.

Our children may or may not return from London
you raised them from afar with your eyes
without their knowing
they might return or never
the new nostalgic expatriates
will bring different roses and a different thirst
full of missing birds.

Stranger in your dead land
you look one last time at the sky
studded with stars and forever in Old Dodro
and you look for Orion and the North Star
southern constellations that never had
like ferns or gigantic masts
to dream about children and caterpillars in the patio.

Grass that will die if a frost comes.

And that’s how suddenly there
like a miracle
a girl four years old appears with you
her grandson gave me the photo
with you the little girl Miz Lina
who brought us every morning
the bread of happiness
in a basket on her head
while I write to you
Miz Lina
with pompoms on her dress
le temps s’en va
among the sheep of Galahad
in the Master’s garden
the sheep grazing
Lina the Ríos’ little girl
looking at us with pompoms
and you above and beyond joy
Canary Island date palm when small
beauty and novelty in my garden
in that time 1918
the time of the Integral Autonomy of the Galician Nation
and the necessary repopulation of the forest.

On bidding you farewell now I hear
a palm weevil in my voice and in my throat
the law that makes all equal as far as dying
the Master’s tall palms
equal to the low the devoted poet workers
never again in the morning song or your Persian recitation
nor your vertebral black shadow in the sunset
oh native tongue
my fresh dialect of unusual psalmic sounds
amid leaves and the warbling
of proud starlings and sparrows
beside the public afternoons of Souto
all the birds and all the seas in the world.

I will die in my nest
and like the Phoenix in the top of the palm
I will multiply my days like sand.
I say farewell to you
Master’s palm tree
decaying sour and hoarse
like a hog.

BARÁN GALICIA

Name chosen by Samuel Prada, a lad from Ourense who emigrated to Andorra, to fight in the war in Syria beside the Kurds in Afrin. He died in combat in February 2018.

I am Baran Galicia
I came from far away
very far
from the land of the Beyond and Across the Ocean
from the nation and home and tribe of God
I came to be with the Kurdish people
land justice and liberty
Leonardo Sánchez Deus
against the terrible imperialist invader
I miss very little
only a few tears of milk.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I am here in Afrín to fight
against Islam and the terror of the Daesh
against the fascist Turkish state
here the tea is green and the pistachios and the beds
the headboard of my bed are made of cedar from Lebanon
I sleep on the dust of war
on the rough sheets of Palestinian dreams
I long for my mother’s bread.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I will learn to fight
I will learn the Kurdish language
I am the rain full of stars
falling like white snow falls in Babylon
this heart of mine that feels nothing
is the steel of Damascan swords
I miss the snow in February
in Andorra Escaldes-Engordany
the center of my parish
where I came in the lap
of emigration as a little boy.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I will fight beside Kendal Breizh
who came from Malastred in Mor-Bihan
between the little sea of Gwened
and the Pondi of Álvaro Cunqueiro
I miss an apple orchard on the river bank
the alms bread in Lanrival on Saturdays.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I am the rain that is infinite drizzle
of the collective dream of Rojava
of commander Nesrin Abdullah
and Abd el-Krim
of everybody’s red republic
I miss the fragments
from when it was just you and me
just the two of us in the world.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
on the shores of Afrín
in March the reeds grow lush
and the Arabs?
what has become of the Arab socialists?
what has become of Baaz, of its Renaissance?
my land is paved with cloudy skies
and poets that don’t open their mouths
I long for a few grains of sesame.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
here I’m getting a political education
training for combat
rudiments of the Kurdish language
and I know how to say down with imperialism
in all the persecuted languages
while I fire a rain of rockets
I have a longing like sand
for the roses and lilies of Damascus
For the fountains and ovens of Baghdad.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I can’t speak English
the plain of Jindires is so purple when it’s plowed
and when digging trenches
more than the one in Bergantiños
greetings to my family
to my grandmother Helena and my aunts and uncles
I miss Ur and Nineve
the neolithic area of the Lakes
all of Ourense.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
the long march begins
look this is my first step
though the valleys and plains of Syria
we march victorious
the planes that bring us supplies
defend and keep watch all at the same time
they bomb with made in USA
they bomb in Kurdish the verses of Mahmud Darwish in Arabic
the peshmerga captured Saddam Hussein
but they’ll never capture Najla Shami’s voice
never that of Helin Bolek
I miss the wheat
the wheat grows among charlock and poppies
the poppies are the bread of Michigan.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
and look here comes the olive branch from the other side
the fountain of peace brings blood and dust and suffering
beware my friends
of love on a green branch of words
it’s where the language of fascism’s
barbed wire is disguised
oh heifers like young heifers
grazing on the plains of Afrin
I will water all the olive trees with my blood
I miss the rainbow over the Miño
among the fields of Coles and the common fields of Sabadelle.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I want to fall like Ivana fell
I want to fall like rain
to be split up in a heartbeat in a thunderstorm
may it conquer the fanatic who never recognizes
I am the other one from the other other
from Nimrod to Jericho
organize and fight in the communes
I miss the cup of sourdough
that moved from house to house
until it ended up in the ancient kneading trough
of Benitiño’s mother Miz Peregrina.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I come from the brotherhood of the MPLA and the Vietcong
I come from Uxío Novoneyra
the star of the YPJ will erase ISIS from the earth
and where is Ramala? Who was Tarek Aziz?
I miss the channel of the damsel chute and the hopper
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I fought in Deir ez-Zor and Raqqa
on the emerald bank of the curves of the Euphrates
I fought in Sinyar with the YBS
with the Turkish communists of the MKLP
I had birds from Saint Ero and Averroes in my head
I miss those of you who understand me.
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

I am Baran Galicia
I dream of living in another cadaver
lying in a far-away land of another
the olive trees of Afrin are too young to die
long live free Kurdistan!
glory to the rain in Galicia
biji (long live) YPG!
biji Serok Apo!
Let’s bring together our hearts
our errors and our defeats.

PIUEIRO. ANCHOR STONE // XIX

Anchor stone or piueiro is the first stone or rock that is the anchoring mechanism of some nets, especially those for trawling . This term is the one that figures on the folio of the boat recovered by the people of A Guarda.

Downward from Santa Trega
tumbled the thick fog of the past
it descended like a wild animal
to the young bird’s foot to the woodsorrel of autumn
and put Baudelaire in Camposancos
in the Passage the man and the sea
Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!

This is the real Passage
visible like Passage
Passage really on the wharf
Absolute Passage.

Constantino Candeira rises
above the mind of the Miño full of river mouth and clay
Manuel Antonio rises off Barbela Point
with his white schooner under his arm
he studies the zigzag in the wake of the Lusiads
in the edition of Campos Monteiro of 1921 (Porto)
he orders the sails to be set into the wind.

This isn’t just any wharf
this is the Wharf
for stranded packet boats
in the low flats of Robaliceira
this is the Wharf
for the shipyards of horizons
this is the Wharf for the Passage
from lavender to rosemary
from the scupper hole in the keel to the plug on the buoy
from the axexo warning on the Arca side to the ajejo on the Arca side
oh Wharf of the Great Passage
where we left in Nation-Ships
along Nation-Horizons
in Nation-Passages.

Eliseo Alonso rises in the strong current
little sardine boats with bold bobbing
dark ships with steep prow
navigating the Rosal and Condado wines
the large woven fishing nets rise up
in the twaite shad in the sablefish the sole more shad
sharp-edged kitefin sharks haul stories from the Miño
the bar of longing arises
the foam of mussel and lamprey
the river’s mouth crossed at dusk with sandbanks and woodpeckers
the international waters rise.

And right here on our own shore
the bitter litany still rises
in Astur-Leonese language of mine and prisoners
et requiem non habebant die et nocte
with Jesuits babies and children
horsey horsey who wobbles but never falls
the river fleeing in an uproar
the Miño is a tidal pool full of sad drowning victims
sanctus piollos sanctus sanctus sanctus
the ones shot by a vile squad of machine guns
pleni sunt caeli et terra of their blood
here the concentration camp
the extermination camp
let us be silent
Camposancos.

Brasilino Álvarez and Manuel Noya rise
the New Herald of Xoán Noya rises,
Gráficas Numen my dear friend Luís Noya
the Workers’ Society of A Guarda rises
they rise from the ditches sans pitié ni remord
the cat doesn’t go hungry in the women’s prison
the ones from the Curve of the Nine and those from the Curve of A Moura
as if their lover were always the wind
ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!

Santos Rocha António Nobre from Pôvoa
Georges! Go see my country of sailors,
the comrades of Pôvoa de Varzim rise
alongside the Hillfort of hillforts
votive marks typically from Pôvoa
sister marks
the sea and the wind brothers
and Brother Saraiva will descend
on the sea you need a knife
the world needs to be skiffed
oh my brothers from Poba
I want to go with you want to go with you
the Sea of Galicians rises
the New Sea of the Southwest
our Sea yours
the old skipper uncle Francisco Fomenegra
aunt Teresa Laranjeira
and all the nets are stranded on the Pedra Galega of Pôvoa
Our Lady of Lapa
we share sailors and drowned men
all the seas and their general code
the fishing decker boy the deck hands
senhora d’ajuda!
ora pro nobis!
quiet!
we are poor!
lord of the palms
star of the sea!
we’re a-coming
and even more
the creation of our appearance
the sloop rises from on high
oh the launches of the Pôvoans
heading out to the bar amid waves of seagulls!
Faith in God rises erect
sister mirror of the dreams of stranded Guarda folk
in the decaying photos from a hundred years ago
I am thrilled as I watch from this purple seaweed
year after year on the shore.

The Rego da Pisa rises
the Stones of the Fort and As Argazosas
the Forno do Duque Gameliñas
Couso Arga Santantón rises
Jesús the Patapá and Feliciano de Salcidos rise,
set afloat with the thalassocracy
of Xosé Lois Vilar Pedreira.
Oh rise up all of you as well
navigation marks on the ancient seas
hauled by the wooden tooth of the dredging or fetching stick
Saint Lucia approached by Arga
Ring of Santantón lying in Cova da Loba
Lombo de Balea above Monte de Oia
uncle Mico what is fog?
those are the insects of ignorance my boy
Primeiro Cabalo aligned with Banqueta do Couso Pequeno
Sobreiro higher up from Loucenzas
Mama do Preto near Valga
these will be your coordinates
Renegade in Redondela.

The mists the winds conspire
turn frightening and howling.

Rise up too, you seas, now named
From Fociño de Montedor to the Golden Bridge of Vietnam
Lawyer of the Poor Bank of Orelluda
Corniños of Silveira Pedra of Tío Lancha
seas of Our Sierra arise
seas of wells stones and peaks
seas of kisses and fissures
of nameless shipwrecks
lush and protean hulls
silence of the drowned.

The enslaved girls rise
and shouldn’t they?
I saw myself as an enslaved woman
caught in the nets being tied
and you can’t see? see the net the fine net all three are free
cords of cork floats and plumber’s cords
repair and tie now to rig it
doing it since girlhood
be careful with the marks of buoys and stone weights
the girls either tying or by the ropewalk
women arise from the hemp
your father is here
your father’s cemetery is the sea my daughter
on the cords that will be sheet and halyard
the dirtier it is the more torsion of meridians
the cords here will never be capes
and afterward they
when they came from on high the children were already talking.

The bark of the willow
a bit chewed at the root
crushed in the bowl and cooked
treating sail cords and equipment
the ark of memory rises up
all the ebbing and rising tides
and the seamstresses of the swelling cloths
rise from the ground like shearwaters’ wings.

The tides of nets arise
from the time of harvesting seaweed
and come hooks come collecting nets and tools for gathering
of netting loose or fixed
the mountains for making fertilizer
dried on the line for the little gardens.

The South Sea rises
sea of skiffs and masseira fields big baskets
the ones that came to Peniche
caulked with the pitch of suffering
Manolo Mon rises now
see the moon so firm the knot of the golden halyard
the long yardarm is from Lamiña
rope is taut the railing portside through the sea
of Montemor to Laxe dos Serráns
and look there he goes alone through the dry area north of Viana
José de Parada de Uxío in A Guarda
those of you who already sailed south
from the same beach as our house
and you returned to the zigzag with a westerly breeze
from Áncora with prow facing Silleiro
with the mast upright if it is northwesterly
tattered sail on entering Ribeiriña
and how to sew the ropes to the roaring stones of the north.

The continental platform rises
abandoned like the Sea of Widows
someone turned the tile in Santa Trega
needle turns you compass from Pôvoa
we leave Our Sea and Our Highland
through the lower seas
dragnets and ray fishing nets the lobster pots rise
we have ships in the Indian Ocean and the Pacific
like Vasco da Gama the brave Captain
after the net the fishing line is abandoned the fishhook
we leave volanteiro fishing boats angarilleiro boats and molleiro boats
we leave the hake and the conger eel
school shark dogfish nursehound spiny dogfish
wolf fish catfish to fight hunger
the sea ate the Velasco II washing it away
a wave like the ones in the Azores
an epidemic a blow a northwesterly gale
Poveirans! My dear fishermen!
our profession is drowning.

The carpenters on the shore rise up like giants
with Domingos Carrera leading
with the bench plane for adornment and in the joy of Lazarus
and you, oh naval things, my old dreamed of toys!
you will be oakum on the edges of the boards
something different has arisen here
built with the effort
of teachers and workers
oh boards of ties and benches
boards running from the stem to the stempost
oh general method of the route of the caverns
the ancient curvature of frightful efficacy.

Sternpost, wheel and ribs of oak
keel and keelson of acacia from Cancelón
mast and yardarm from the Rosal mountains
for a sail of 8 oz. And 103 square meters
with the bolt ropes and cables that go with them
and the rest of the wood all in place
the sawmill for the pines too
from the three parishes of its mountain
they do it
Salcidos A Guarda Camposancos
all the efforts were decorated
and look there they come with Tuto at the helm,
Tolín, Suso Minero, Tomás and Tura
anchor stones.

Constantino Candeira rise up again
from your cradle like sand
let Manuel Antonio rise again
with his most unknown star
because the day of the big launch has arrived
let the authorities here arise and speak
au bruit de cette plainte indomptable at sauvage
because the Piueiro is sliding prow first on the harrow
the great testimony of the town of A Guarda.

Oh Piueiro
communal mark of this honorable folk
shining over all the oceans
the Pôvoan Faith in God of those from A Guarda
oh you who were conceived aboard
one of those horizons of the Indian Ocean
a calm afternoon when the smoke
is set low after the storm
born from a common breast and with no distant ellipses
with Tito Churro and Xoaquín Cadilla
had to resist
a la resurrección de este muerto país
(Sarmiento’s resurrection of this dead nation)
and anchor stone friends did that for us
we spent time resisting
and we’re just four crazy guys
in A Guarda or Manselle or The Divine Farce
in Madrid or Father Sarmiento
Xoaquín the Balueiro far away again
with the black grape to drink on the seas Cape Verde
black roses ocean of pain
with Amílcar Cabral
not one more.

Anchor stone
black lighthouse in the Castro sea of the galaicos
our faith in God de scythes and ardor
let us build bridges from A Guarda to Fonmiñá
from Santa Trega to Pôvoa and Luanda.

Oh Piueiro anchor stone
first stone
foundation and head stone
that sets our route and guides us
you give us direction and make us stay the course
stone rock anchor
marvelous modern life on the sea
we set forth on the sea like a mark
twenty miles from land
a hundred fathoms deep
Piueiro you guide gillnets of l’espoir
no dictionary hauled you
from the abysses
Piueiro of sardines and thirst
of the fishwife and the mariner
slaves and barefoot.

All these dead folk salute you
we salute you
and the old women on the beach
all of us in the grave rise up with you and come alive again
Piueiro of the renaissance in obstinate morning song
pioneer in sea and on land
communal pioneer in the village of the universe
and all of us with hoarse voices say to you
onward Piueiro
onward onward onward!

Sail forever
voilà des siècles innombrables
oh Piueiro that sets off now
oh my country you are setting sail.