The memory of a clandestine meeting

BarcelonaWe will conclude with a poem by Pere Fages de Climent (1902-1968), an honorable citizen of Castelló d'Empúries, the town of my paternal lineage. Fages, now fully recognized, wrote the poem on a date I cannot specify. Anthem in the Empordà...a region that had traditionally been federalist and is now primarily pro-independence: the ebb and flow of ideas. I myself—if you'll allow me to speak in the first person today, which I hate as much as Pascal:Le moi est haisable"I would go with my father or uncle, the heir to the farmhouse, to visit Can Canet's bookstore on the Rambla in Figueres, where a gang of 'lifelong federalists' secretly met in the back room of the establishment, hidden only by a flimsy curtain, in a dim light. In later decades, they talked about politics, and that's how I acquired the foundations of what could be called my approach to it: the opinions of others, tolerance, no animosity towards the various peoples of Catalonia and Spain, and an unyielding sense of fraternity with all beings capable of speech. That's why we federated it. Fascinating; today I would only exchange it for a just, effective, and friendly confederation."

nothing published Some phrase it differently, others renege on their original intentions, others live in disillusionment, many cling to faith. Now we can only hope that everything will be resolved in the most satisfactory way for everyone: men, women, children, old women, priests, and police officers. On one of the eves of those clandestine meetings, Canet read us this poem by Fages de Climent, Anthem in the Empordà, which I transcribe.

If all the feds shake hands
to surround the love of this Gaia land,
where the static virgins have jug-like profiles
And the moon and the sun are made of mint and saffron...
Orpheus, the Greek Singer, how he sings in Catalan!
Calypso has learned the dance that starts with the left foot.
The tenor's finger signs on the heart, which does not make mistakes,
which is the loving time to believe and hope.
The mountaineer descends to the rhythm of the flat dance.
Let the islander raise the arjau that clings to his fist
and the separated faithful cross the high mountain range
slopes of snow jugs of the brother Canigou.
We dance with our arms outstretched, delighting the afterlife!
We toppled the plinth of Mars, god of war,
and with olive leaves we hung up their waste
And in Elche, may the Sphinx smile and the wind become clear,
if all Catalans shake hands.

Hail, you're worth it..