PENINSULAR CHANT

By Manuel Alegre

Staying here hurts. But I am here
nine-hundred years already. I did not grow or change.
I rotted.
Even my roots hurt.

There was war and peace. And the sun came. It came
and the storm was gone.
Much has changed. This monster alone
who is my age did not.

And there was war and peace again. Much has changed
in nine-hundred years.
I alone did not. In the monster I changed
only the eyes are still human.

How many times I shouted and was not heard
how many times I lied and was left
in battlefields where later flourished
flowers and bread, born out of my blood

I went from land to land
around the world that in a way I discovered.
And I was a soldier against my own war
I who left to the world never leaving here.

A thousand dreams I dreamt. And a thousand deceits I found
I had the world in my hands. And I always starved.
That's how I am since nine-hundred years
I who can not even write my own name

They talk about me and say: he is an hero
(do not know whether by being dead or because I have not died yet)
But nobody told me why it does hurt
being here.