If in the preambles it is usual, or at least well faked, to define more or less the terms of the writing itself, or once it is started, if you want to become ambitious, to present an aesthetic, literary or any kind of approach, it is indifferent that the typical of the beginnings is to pay homage to their references and name them by their names, as I come here, as lovers of the marked paths.

On this occasion, a small cast of words has been addressed both to the poet and to those heroes who cast aside a more general thought, and it was only people that we loaded with the burden of repelling, that is, filling our expectations, forging a better, bolder, more beautiful version of the need to firmly maintain some principles that we have adapted many times. As I have done many times, and as I did to you in another time, I have to tell you Amaia publicly: “Forgive, Amaia.”

Despite the hopes that exist, there are people who, in general, suffer from a scourge that affects several classics, and we know in a rather superficial way, collectively, the work of Amaia Lasa, who, 40 years after its publication, we could still use as a motto of manifestation (and by the way, expose that gender), of his poems we only know from memory three or four of them, none of whom we have used as the iron house of my father.

I started with the princes of hope, but they came to me through Josune Muñoz, in the Alhóndiga of Bilbao, in the program of the School of Literature. And I learned that Amaia Lasa’s thirst for freedom was not only “to deny all gods,” but also “to banish the flower so as not to wilt in anyone’s hands.” And yet, my most primary reaction was to give, to society, to academia. Why was it no more vindicated, why not more present? And also angry with the author: Why so few books, why did you go to Nicaragua when I needed you so much here, why Amaia? How many feminists would already be wrong.

After the time, a little quieter the impulse, the bitter taste returned to my throat, when that evil melody of reproach that I myself cut at another time touched me in front of me in the documentary The Punk Singer (2013, Sini Anderson) about singer Kathleen Hannah and one of the main creators of the Riot grrrl movement. Speaking of the time when Hannah stopped making music, one of the fans escapes such a high and pathetic feeling of abandonment. Basically, so unjustly. Those of us who admire, though we admire, owe nothing to us.

Before concluding, as I am referring to debt, as I like everything to be well tied and circular, when choosing the title I have taken into account two words from that other M song that may seem not to come to the subject and that would surely deserve more characters: if what we demand from the replaced is not what we demand from the parents, but above all what we demand from the Mother. If, when we talk about cutting the umbilical cord, we ask our children to leave us peacefully in the holy peace, it is only in our interest, however, without us giving up our privileges: soup when we are sick, and unconditionality among other things.

So forgive me, Amaia, and most of all thank you Amaia for all that you gave us so generously, though you owed us nothing.