Latin America
Related: About this forumJOAN MANUEL SERRAT Las nanas de la cebolla, Miguel Hernndez
Music by Alberto Cortéz
Interpretation by Joan Manuél Serrat.
Xipe Totec
(43,890 posts)The onion is frost
shut in and poor.
Frost of your days
and of my nights.
Hunger and onion,
black ice and frost
large and round.
My little boy
was in hungers cradle.
He was nursed
on onion blood.
But your blood
is frosted with sugar,
onion and hunger.
A dark woman
dissolved in moonlight
pours herself thread by thread
into the cradle.
Laugh, son,
you can swallow the moon
when you want to.
Lark of my house,
keep laughing.
The laughter in your eyes
is the light of the world.
Laugh so much
that my soul, hearing you,
will beat in space.
Your laughter frees me,
gives me wings.
It sweeps away my loneliness,
knocks down my cell.
Mouth that flies,
heart that turns
to lightning on your lips.
Your laughter is
the sharpest sword,
conqueror of flowers
and larks.
Rival of the sun.
Future of my bones
and of my love.
The flesh fluttering,
the sudden eyelid,
and the baby is rosier
than ever.
How many linnets
take off, wings fluttering,
from your body!
I woke up from childhood:
dont you wake up.
I have to frown:
always laugh.
Keep to your cradle,
defending laughter
feather by feather.
Yours is a flight so high,
so wide
that your body is a sky
newly born.
If only I could climb
to the origin
of your flight!
Eight months old you laugh
with five orange blossoms.
With five little
ferocities.
With five teeth
like five young
jasmine blossoms.
They will be the frontier
of tomorrows kisses
when you feel your teeth
as weapons,
when you feel a flame
running toward your gums
driving toward the centre.
Fly away, son, on the double
moon of the breast:
it is saddened by onion,
you are satisfied.
Dont let go.
Dont find out whats happening,
or what goes on.
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/lullaby-onion
Judi Lynn
(160,527 posts)He was a political prisoner of the Franco regime, died in prison at the age of 31, after savage illnesses bourne of neglect and cold exposure, tuberculosis being the most prominent of several he was stricken with at the same time. So awful. It was clear his sentence was unjust, illegitimate, etc. He was a political prisoner, in every sense.
Couldn't really understand the poem's meaning in my first attempt, then saw your added info., then looked for more information.
What a shame he didn't live and write nearly as long as the world could have appreciated so much.
Fascists ALWAYS destroy the brightest and the best, and great communicators, the amazing creative people who tower so far above the others with their gifts, and passion, and good hearts.
Thank you for introducing this writer to this forum.
Xipe Totec
(43,890 posts)Miguel Hernández wrote this poem to his son while in prison, in response to a letter he received from his wife complaining that all she and her son had for food was bread and onion's blood.