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    AUTUMN

Land
Corroded by war,
sad luckless Spain,
before my eyes
this October morning,
the sky
Is of rusty steel, the first cold
guillotine the yellow leaves,
homeland
of my haphazard wanderings,
red-tinged hills
of Ciudad Real
tenuous fog in Vigo,
bridge
over the Ter, lines of olive trees
near the blue of Tarragona,
land
laboriously worked,
for which all should weep,
we
open our arms to life,
we know
that another autumn will come, heavy-laden with gold
avidly sailing towards the light.

autógrafo

Blas de Otero
Translated by Patrick H. Sheerin


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