Doors are ways entry and exit of people, but also of ideas. Protection, but also isolation. Opening to the outside, to other worlds, new ideas. Last year, Astorga celebrated the 200 anniversary of the siege of the city by the French, against which finally resulted winner. At the time I wrote the poem "City Under Siege" as a contribution to the Literary Round in August organized by the Centre for Studies Astorgano "Marcelo Macías, with the implicit desire to see forever Astorga as a city open, with all the connotations that implies.
These last days are being so complicated for many Arab countries, of which only a few miles separate us from the sea, made me think again about the doors that humanity is put as many times thinking, evolution, ..., and when by chance I met again with this poem, I thought of sharing as part of that discussion to which I have taken these circumstances.
CITY UNDER SIEGE.
watched the old city walls guarded by
leaving church towers looming over it.
Getting there dragging their feet
old the old path of pilgrims seeking
ideal place to rest his old
and order ideas and knowledge accumulated throughout life.
A day, someone talked about a small
city crossroads and cultures,
a place whose doors were always open to step
and thoughts of other people,
a place where ideas flowed
canvas weave of cultures and influences,
a place where I always found that creating their own spaces.
And eventually, the time,
headed there, to her,
their weary steps to tread on many roads,
of places come and go through endless,
to weave words and
experiences over the hours and days, the months and years.
came when the night began to extend its embrace
on its streets and squares,
on walls and roofs.
More
found no open its doors
city besieged by hostile enemies,
fields after bloody skirmishes and battles.
was locked in tight, its five gates
closures by huge bolts
and a people committed to their defense.
was the hour when the sun poured
bloodied after Teleno distant hillside,
where old stones
stronghold lit with reflected gold and red sunset
while passing the wayfarer hastens
the sound of the call to prayer from the convent,
to not be surprised
night out and has to sleep outdoors.
But today seem asleep
bells and pedestrians diverted their steps from the besieged town,
away in fear of army tents
French invading the surrounding plain with a hug of death
the city and the people in them refugees. Callan
bells as the last shadows
confused with the night the walls.
only a fixture on, indicates the
guard duty while a heavy silence heralds new struggles
where the sun rises again.
Refugee travel in her shawl,
looked lost in space,
the city weary traveler looks wished to build
to rest in her work.
Find shelter near an old tree,
without losing sight of the place where he now senses only
stand open those walls
where ideas flow and people.
drowsy and let it cool of the evening
hoping that the dawn surprised
awakening from a bad dream,
the nightmare envisioned by the accumulated fatigue.
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