Hoy hace 100 años era Lunes de Pascua y un grupo de rebeldes irlandeses se enfrentó al todopoderoso Imperio británico y proclamó la República irlandesa. El Irish Writers’ Centre ha encargado a seis grandes poetas que vuelvan su mirada hacia los héroes de 1916 en el proyecto A Poet’s Rising. Sirva este recuerdo como homenaje a quienes entregaron sus vidas por la libertad de Irlanda. Aquí tenéis el poema de Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin ‘For James Connolly’.
When I think of all the false beginnings …
The man was a pair of hands,
the woman another pair, to be had more cheaply,
the wind blew, the children were thirsty – when he passed by the factory door he saw them,
they were moving and then waiting, as many
as the souls that crowded by Dante’s boat
that never settled in the water –
what weight to ballast that ferry?
They are there now, as many
as the souls blown by the winds of their desire,
the airs of love, not one of them weighing
one ounce against the tornado
that lifts the lids off houses, that spies
where they crouch together inside
until the wind sucks them out.
It is only wind, but what braced muscle, what earthed foot
can stand against it, what voice so loud
as to be heard shouting Enough?
He had driven the horse in the rubbish cart, he knew
the strength in the neck under the swishing mane,
he knew how to tell her to turn, to back or stand.
He knew where the wind hailed from, he studied
its language, it blew in spite of him.
He got tired waiting for the wind to change,
as we are exhausted waiting for that change,
for the voices to shout Enough, for the hands
that can swing the big lever and send the engine rolling
away to the place we saw through the gap in the bone
where there was a painted room, music and the young people
dancing on the shore, and the Old Man of the Sea
had been sunk in the wide calm sea.
The sea moves under the wind and shows nothing
– not where to begin. But look for the moment
just before the wave of change crashes and
goes into reverse. Remember the daft beginnings
of a fatal century and their sad endings, but let’s not
hold back our hand from the lever. Remember James Connolly,
who put his hand to the work, who saw suddenly
how his life would end, and was content because
men and women would succeed him, and his testament
was there, he trusted them. It was not a bargain:
in 1916 the printer locked the forme,
he set it in print, the scribes can’t alter an iota
– then the reader comes, and it flowers again, like a painted room.