On this blog, I like including great poets like him: Miguel Hernández Gilabert (Orihuela, 1910-Alicante, 1942). A special human being who gave the world an exquisite work as a poet and a playwright.

Even belonging to a poor family and having to give up his studies to help his father with the cattle, his infinite interest encouraged him to voraciously read the classics of Spanish poetry and joining the literary circle in Orihuela. In 1930 he dared publish his poems in magazines and moved to Madrid. There, he worked for Cossío’s taurine dictionary and continued his collaborations in literary magazines. In 1936 he writes the famous poems The Image of Your Fingerprint and A Lightning that Never Stops.

Unfortunately, the Spanish Civil War broke out and Hernandez was involved in the activities of the republicans and the Communist Party. During those years of struggle, he married and had two children, but the first one died within a few months. From this period we have the works ‘The Man Lurking’, ‘Songbook and Ballads of Absences’ and ‘Wind of the People’. After the war, being identified because of his antifascist activism, he tried to flee to Portugal but he was arrested and sentenced to death. He went through several criminal institutions and finally, several intellectual friends interceded for him and managed to transmute his sentence to 30 years in prison. However, in 1941 he fell ill with bronchitis, which was complicated by tuberculosis. It is said that when he died, his eyes would not close.

[Free and unofficial translation]


Among the flowers you left. Among the flowers I stay.


I walk slowly, slowly I drop my face, my heart was torn slowly and slowly and in the blues I return to mourn beside my guitar.


Blood which does not overflow, youth who dares not, has nor blood, nor youth, nor shine or blossom.


Every day my blood wishes more and my love enlarges and disbands, and I cannot understand why I am not allowed to want if my heart commands me.


Just look: the look covers in truth. Just listen: blood resounds in my ears. From each breath comes the fiery breath of many hearts united by couples.


I woke up to be a child. Never wake. I have a sad mouth. Always laugh. Always in the cradle, defending laughter feather by feather.


In your hand is the freedom of the wing, the freedom of the world, flying soldiers: you will pull weeds and other engines out of the greedy sky.


Hatred is muffled behind the window. Be a gentle claw. Let me hope.


A drop of pure courage is better than a cowardly ocean.


Sad wars if love is not the company. Sad. Sad. Sad weapons if they are not words. Sad. Sad. Sad if men do not die of love. Sad. Sad.


Do not lean out the window, there’s nothing in this house. Look out my soul.


Here I am to live while the soul sounds to me, and I’m here to die, when the time comes to me in the springs of my place now and forever. Several drinks is life and one swallow is death.



I wish you a happy week,

Álex Rovira

Alex Rovira