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Tere Irastortza Garmendia > Extracts


2001 Those who exist, without name. Songs at the height of pregnancy | Pamiela


Memory was the attribute of the gods,
and forgetting, our defence.
Against that, Cain is said to have chosen
exile without fatherland,
rather than taking the mother country to the grave.

Yet memory has endured,
because fear existed later on,
and so there has been no solitude,
but rather silence which was spread
through the conversation
broken in denial

and thanks to memories
we curled up in the womb of forgetfulness
while fear pursued us

for memory was the attribute of the gods
and forgetting, our excuse.


Only death was in God's image,
pursuing the lips of children in foreign cities.
It had scattered the apostles and enemies
without needing to rouse them,
two by two and in groups,
to cross sea expanses of flagless countries,
to suddenly burst at twilight
the wails of children who could not sleep,
when they needed almond flower and sweet water.

Beneath, all death was in God's image,
the women, who did not want to give birth to suffering,
couldn't close their eyes, unless it was to take
that perfumed garden inside them,
along with autumn in their wombs,
they who waited
for the moment and means to repudiate death
fulfilled in God's image.


ONLY what is not said is
what should have been said
and what is kept silent
is what is continually fertilised
in the memory,
for ever eternalised.

I say all this -they said-
knowing that only
what has not been mentioned here
is what will live on,
what will retain fearful, nameless memory.

As the bone is carried in the seed,
so the flaw comes in the word,
but the only thing that satisfies
is the memory's serum.

CREATE you are created
(but inside me).
There are no creators
(whatever all the writers might say)
there are no creators

only space which
is not closed to the unknown.

Spaces are filled;
they are neither shortened
nor lengthened;
for they are neither geometrically transferred,
nor preserved in photos and images.

Spaces are filled
-inside us first of all-.

EVEN any choice kept for solitude
becomes a womb;
your muteness is fertilised
in all turns to speak:
you are carried
in the seed of intimacy.

INTIMACY isn't a question of one person
your kicks express it well
while I am alone.

GAZING at the nurseries
I feel I am a collected moment.
Not the whole globe,
a damp, watery corner

MANY dreamt
that life was born out of water,
dreams come in waves of memory.

Not because future loneliness fills me with fear,
though demographers may say otherwise,
but you were fertilised
by the knowledge that there was no loneliness in the
the time of memory.

YOU know me because I have you inside me,
And you are no more than my hope.
You know me, and you distinguish me
from the gardener who is pruning the evening,
from the southerly wind that is sucking the mountain snows,
even though I cannot distinguish you
from my loneliness.

-Because it surrounds us?
-Space sets limits on us,
because it is inside us.

CITIES are the labyrinths and maps
of the nightmares of the authorities:
I won't leave you alone
while you are learning to conceal yourself.

THE UMBILICAL CORD will separate us:
you'll live in another house across the street,
you will be the daughter of another time, across time.

And right there, at that very time, you will have me inside you
behind all the streets, times and manners of speaking.

NOT EVEN an island for innocence
in the hot-cold parallels
and in all the latitudes which squeeze the world.

But wait for me
in the trap of memory:
where the joining of extreme forgetfulness
with swollen dreams
will not obstruct.
Wait for me
in the only oasis I know,
and when you feel the waiting is too long, count
with the rungs of the rope ladder between earth and heaven,
the words spoken in vain:
the only oasis I know.


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