Leon Felipe. Anniversary of his death. Some poems

León Felipe, poet from Zamora between the generation of 98 and that of 27, he died a day like today in Mexico City in 1968. And if there is a poem that I really like about my land and our eternal Quixote, it is Overdue. So, in his memory, goes this selection of poems Of his works.

León Felipe - Selection of poems


Through the plain of La Mancha
the figure is seen again
Don Quixote pass.

And now idle and dented the armor goes on the dark,
and the gentleman goes idle, without breastplate and without back,
it is loaded with bitterness,
that there he found a grave
his loving battle.
It is loaded with bitterness,
that there "was his fortune"
on the beach of Barcino, facing the sea.

Through the plain of La Mancha
the figure is seen again
Don Quixote pass.
It is loaded with bitterness,
the knight, defeated, goes back to his place.

How many times, Don Quixote, on that same plain,
In hours of discouragement I watch you go by!
And how many times do I shout to you: Make a place for me in your mount
and take me to your place;
make a place for me in your saddle,
defeated knight, make a place for me on your mount
that I'm also loaded
of bitterness
and I can't fight!

Put me on the back with you,
knight of honor,
put me on the back with you,
and take me to be with you

Through the plain of La Mancha
the figure is seen again
Don Quixote pass ...

How should your voice be

Have a voice, woman
which can
say my verses
and can
become without anger, when I dream
from heaven to earth ...
Have a voice, woman
that when I wake up it doesn't hurt me ...
Have a voice, woman, that doesn't hurt
when you ask me: what do you think?
Have a voice, woman
which can
when i'm counting
the stars
tell me in such a way
What's up?
that when I turn my eyes to you
what happened counting
of a star
another star.
Have a voice, woman, let it be
cordial like my verse
and clear as a star.


Spanish from yesterday's exodus
and Spanish from today's exodus:
you will save yourself as a man,
but not like Spanish.
You have no country or tribe. Yes you can,
sink your roots and your dreams
in the ecumenical rain of the sun.
And stand up… Stand up!
That maybe the man of this time ...
he is the movable man of light,
of the exodus and the wind.

I know all the stories

I do not know many things, it's true.
I only say what I've seen.
And I've seen:
that the cradle of man is rocked with stories,
that the cries of anguish of man drown them with stories,
that the cry of man is covered with stories,
that the bones of man bury them with stories,
and that the fear of man ...
has made up all the stories.
I do not know many things, it's true,
but they have slept me with all the stories ...
And I know all the stories.

No one was yesterday

No one was yesterday
nor does it go today,
nor will go tomorrow
towards god
down this same path
that I'm going.
For every man save
a new ray of light the sun ...
and a virgin road

Like you

This is my life
like you. Like you,
small stone;
like you,
light stone;
like you,
I sing what wheels
along the roads
and along the sidewalks;
like you,
humble cobblestone of the highways;
like you,
that on stormy days
you sink
in the mire of the earth
and then
you twinkle
under the helmets
and under the wheels;
like you, who have not served
to be no stone
from a fish market,
no stone from an audience,
nor stone from a palace,
no stone from a church;
like you,
adventure stone;
like you,
that maybe you're done
just for a sling,
small stone
light ...

My heart

My heart,
How abandoned I find you!
My heart,
you are the same as those
uninhabited palaces
and full of mysterious silences.
My heart,
old palace,
dismantled palace,
desert palace,
mute palace
and full of mysterious silences ...
Not a swallow anymore
get to look for your eaves
and they make their shelter only
in your holes the bats.

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