43.22 N Parallel

The oil has reached the beach near my grandmother’s house.

I saw it wash up on shore this morning.

No one thought it would come this far east, but it has.

The spill now reaches the whole Galician shore.

  

I called her last night. It is over.

We never thought it would come to this, but it has.

To say goodbye painlessly, won’t be easy.

I am drained. I need this land now. 
Her strength, her untamed freedom, her fury.

But she’s been wounded by a deadly blow to her very being, 
to so much of her life.

She lies moribund now at her own shores,

unable to heal me as before in her pristine ocean.

 I need her. Her strength, her untamed freedom, her fury.

but she is no longer here.

Distances, differences, confusion, madness, stupidity, silence…

Deadly blows to what was built on the impossible.

Gone too is the healing pool of her blue eyes.

Nothing left but to surrender to the dark storm 

that engulfs and drowns many in this parallel,

cold sea of  isolation,

black tide of sorrows,

How to look at the agony of this wounded land and not wish to die alongside of her?

By Adrian Boutureira
 Fiobre, 2003