It is not for you to catch all the fires that find their
flight to Guernica | the cinder settles on the palette
after being coughed from the lung, this was your
home, that which was swelling on the pasture of
each breath you struggled to unearth | how many
hours were lost with the gazania now sharing the
afterlife with the woven blanket laced by the bent
fingers of your sleeping grandmother who did not
wake for the bombs when perched in a nest between
your hearts mouth and the yellow azulejo
Hatred will always find its way to steal what pieces
are loose and falling from your flesh, but you must
close your eyes when the flesh of those you love
find fire, now you learn agur | or else your memory
will stay behind to roam the roads where you once
fell in love with baked clay underneath the sun
Here, smell how the spelt becomes the bomb, but
do not fix yourself before you flee, only the soul
cannot be replaced, zure bihotza erre egingo da
zer esanik ez
Basque:
zure bihotza erre egingo da zer esanik ez
𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵
