Directed by Ruth Somalo, 5min, December 2020
Un poema escrito durante la dictadura franquista española por el poeta, abogado y político Emilio Gastón, vuelve a la vida tras el asesinato de George Floyd a manos de la policía americana. Como en un sueño febril y distópico la domesticidad, la carrera espacial, las noticias, las calles del Lower east Side durante la pandemia, las protestas de Black Lives Matter, una obra artística a medio hacer y la flor de un té, colisionan con los disturbios políticos y sociales en estados Unidos resucitando un poema de rebelión y esperanza 48 años después de su escritura.
An Spanish poem written during Franco’s dictaorship by lawyer, poet and politician Emilio Gastón, comes alive during the protests after the murder of George Floyd at the hands of the police. Like in a dystopian fever dream, domesticity, space race, news, the streets of the Lower East Side during the Covid pandemic, the Black Lives Matter protests, an artists collage in progress and a cup of tea, collide with the political and social unrest in the US resurrecting the rebellious and hopeful words of a poem 48 years after it was written. (POEM TRANSLATION BELOW)
ALICUANDO POEM TRANSLATION by Ruth Somalo & Patricia Andrés:
I bring you a report on finished larks
because this is not the world you said was coming.
I’ve seen the infrastructure of men
I’ve seen a stupid sky from my bedroom
I’ve seen the daily ration of freedom
you want to assign us,
in an orderly fashion,
I reject it!
Bring me a sad flower
and let’s analyze this:
The world is uneven.
Where does the dissident cattle go from that exceptional dawn?
When do we attack then?
We are given a utilitarian landscape and some small rent controlled skies
so we all keep quiet.
I will not be quiet.
I wield peace today my friend,
since tomorrow is the decisive day
when love is not the most important.
Here I am already
alone within the pack
when so many violins resound in protests as my voice
I go, uninhabited, world on my back
along a hillside 37 horizons long.
The journey was hard.
The blizzards and the snow penetrated my trunk like spine
an angel lent me his trench coat.
My rebelliousness is no longer cold.
In transit this mountains carrying landscapes on my back.
and a weekly change of underwear and thoughts.
On an excursion to air my soul.
Enduring storms I let my heart run wild across the fields
and I await the song in hopes the rain will clear.
Smiling in unison
the hand of my scientist-proletarian friend
dissolves the clouds
a Genesis like those
and I offer poems and trench coats for all.
Filling my canteen with hope I climb up and down the mountains
with The Revolution always inside me
keeping the sad flower for myself
I finally plant my moon flag on the summit
and I DECLARE MYSELF A FREE COUNTRY.