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The Fatherland is turning its years and again the paradox is presented to us, do we really know what the homeland is?
Martín del Barco Centenera first mentioned the place name “Argentina” to mention this region and it was the same cleric who named the inhabitants of Santa Fe “Argentines”. But what is Argentina? That same question is asked Jorge Luis Borges in his poem “Fundación Mítica de Buenos Aires”.
“And was it for this river of dreamera and mud
that the pros came to founded the Fatherland? “.
And from the same poem answers yes, that it was this river so proud of its width and its color that received the conquest:
“The truth is that a thousand men and a thousand others arrived
by a sea that was five moons wide”
but “civilization” was not made easy:
“with his red star to mark the place
where Juan Diaz fasting and the Indians ate.”
Borges continues with a humorous nod to the well-known half plus one:
“they lit some tremulus ranches on the coast
but they are embelecos set in the mouth .”
And it ends by preventing the world about our expansive and somewhat fanciful character, which boasts of eternal and unlimited glory:
“men shared an illusory past
who was missing only one thing: the sidewalk across the street
to me is the story that Buenos Aires started
I judge it as eternal as water and air.”
This earth above the eyes,
this sticky cloth, black of impassible stars,
this night continues, this distance.
I love you, country lying below the sea, belly fish above,
poor shadow of country, full of winds,
monuments and spaments,
of pride without object, subject to assaults,
spit harmless curdella rotting and shaking flags,
handing out cockels in the rain, splashing
drool and stupor football fields and ringsides.
You're burning on low heat, and where the fire,
where the one who eats the roasts and throws your bones at you.
Malandras, packs, lords and cafishos,
deputies, tilingas of compound surname,
fat weaving on the lags, normal teachers, priests, scribes,
centroforwards, light, Fangio solo, first lieutenants,
colonels, generals, seafarers, health, carnivals, bishops,
bagualas, chamamese, malbos, mambos, tangos,
secretariats, undersecretariats, bosses, contrajefes, trick,
counteraflor the rest. And what the hell,
if the house was his dream, if he was killed in a
fight, if you see it, try it and take it away.
Forced liquidation, it's finished to the last.
I love you, country thrown on the sidewalk, empty matchbox, I love
you, trash that is carried on a cureña
wrapped in the flag that Belgrano bequeathed to us,
while the old girls cry at the wake, and the mate comes
with its green comfort, lottery of the poor,
and on every floor there is someone who was born making speeches
for someone else who was born to listen to them and peel their hands.
Poor blacks who join the desire to be white,
poor white people who live a black carnival,
what a pool, little brother, in Boedo, in La Boca,
in Palermo and Barracas, on the bridges, outside,
in the ranches that stop the grime of the pampa,
in the blanched houses of the silence of the north,
in the veneers zinc where the cold rubs,
in the Plaza de Mayo where the death brought of Lie is round.
I love you, naked country that dreams of a tuxedo,
vice-champon of the world in anything, in what comes out,
third position, nuclear energy, justicialism, cows,
tango, courage, fists, vividness and elegance.
So sad in the depths of the scream, so beaten
in the best of the garufa, so garific at the time of the autopsy.
But I love you, mud country, and others love you, and something
will come out of this feeling. Today is distance, escape, you
don't get in, what vaché, give him what goes, patience.
The earth between the fingers, the garbage in the eyes,
being Argentinean is to be sad,
being Argentinean is to be far away.
And not to say: tomorrow,
because it's enough to be lazy now.
Covering my face
(the poncho leave you, unhappy folklorist)
I remember a star in the middle of the field,
I remember a dawn of puna,
Tilcara in the afternoon, fragrant Paraná,
Tupungato arisca, a flight of flamingos
burning a horizon of bathings.
I love you, country, dirty handkerchief, with your streets
covered with peronist posters, I love you
without hope and without forgiveness, without return and without right,
nothing but from afar and bitter and at night.
Publication Date: 09/07/2018
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