was a spring day in Alicante. For me to go to Alicante was largely a visit. We had picked a car friendly and went out with friends quickly by a road which I do not remember the name, but whose end was the justification for my trip. Levantine Spring! How sweet heaven, how intense the light, and the smell of orange blossoms late! We entered the thick air, inhabiting, vacuuming, dressing your soft emerged thickness and other flavorings, other friction, another dress on, almost trastormados, in a race that, paradoxically seemed the path of the lights and smells, the soft prisons and the magical freedoms. Suddenly, we turned to the left, and a long and uniform wall opened into a wide span of silence. We went down and we started down the path carefully. The niches in high walls very white, lay under the bright light. The weighed solid sky and the glow seemed to be almost unbearable volume on our shoulders. We walked slowly, searching. Some niches have glass and tiny flowers under their brightness (...) We wanted a headstone naked a hole. And there was, suddenly. Almost at ground level. Niches, elevations in emptiness, far from common land are sad, but it surprised me: very low, almost on the ground, and supported her as lovingly resting on its edge well. They looked good the stone. Large letters in bas-relief, had color, and suns and rains of years had faded the shoulder. He saw the name, status and dates. Nothing more. Fearful eloquence of a pregnant silence of those. Imposing silence that overwhelmed a silent gesture, but unbearable. The wind was terrible soft, innocent and refreshing. And I laid on the ground, lying down and quiet, looked at the white stone, break the seal. There I long, and behind your silence, your being, you hear me. You, the pure and true, you, the most real of all, you, not disappeared. That morning I had had in their hands (and who taught me the most was) all photographs of the child, boy. Man first. There, your big blue eyes the color of a stone spotless, there your bald head so often gave clear where the sun friend, your chest open, your hands are big and rough, your good plant, which twinned with the trees and the large jet waterfalls. I saw Finally her face, so overwhelmingly English. Lying, eaten of suffering, pain almost tree, with fearful expression of serenity for death agony. And in the wide-open eyes the absence of music, drowned. So vigorous that had resounded in total comprehensive pupils. Face sacred, powerful testimony rearwardly anyone, can never erase.
I got up from the ground and pulled me on the headstone. Tombstone that I did not seal, but communication, but that word. And we walked awkwardly. Torpísimamente under that light fierce, pitiless, which seemed to skin the bye.
"A Visit" Encounters . Vicente Aleixandre.
This time, Aleixandre evokes the figure of Miguel Hernandez later described as a spring force stuck in the spring. Miguel, a poet in a dream, who knows the art of fishing stars, but also l unicultor in stubborn struggle for life, for dignity of life for all and for all. So today and always, I do not forgive the death love and released as a giant shell and infinite word poet your kind heart and handed over the coffins fierce ambush.
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