Ladies and gentlemen, this is our last word/–our first and last word./ Poets descended from the Olympus. We are in the days of poetry of Ea, in Portusolo, late at night. There is no scenario here, where everything happens at the same level, where the receiver and the creator are in the same land. And in the current scenario, Gotzon Barandiaran, Itziar Castrillo, Ane García and Josu Landa. And with them, from their bodies, Nicanor Parra and Violeta Parra. For our ancestors/ poetry was a luxury issue/ for us/ it is a product of need:/ we cannot live without poetry.

Neither Olympus nor God. That was exactly Portusolo. The people of the earth, on the grass, in the midst of questioning, penetrating, beautiful, earthly poetry. In saxophone Castrillo, the other three gave their poems in the beautiful Basque translation, and García sang with the guitar those of Violeta. Barandiaran and Landa also helped him. They did it by the strength of the poet, never by memory. Landes from the skin of the student Nicanor: We were mad by the teachers/questions who did not come to the subject. How complex numbers come together/there are spiders on the moon. And Barandiaran, on the banks of the professor's ear, how did the Zar's family die? Is it possible to sing with his mouth closed? Who painted the mustache to Gioconda/ how the inhabitants of Jerusalem are called? (...)

It seemed they were taking the floor and making it closer to people. May the world that is based on the words of the parratars bring hearts to the earth. How we talk about freedom, and that is what we lack./ How they ask for calm, and we are tortured by the rulers. And he repeated vividly: What does the Pope of Rome say, so plummeted by his dove?

At the intervals of the readings, there were some brushes of the lives of the brothers; antipoetry, connection with the Mapuche communities, the Violeta scrolls in Paris… The last one he mentioned was Landa; terrible, Less bad than the author of life committed suicide soon after he wrote it, in the distant winter of 1967. Garcia also sang, the translation of Amets Arzallus, which we would then search for him and others, in the atrium of the spider. Thank you for giving me life/ an eye nest for me to open it/ because it had all the colors/ many red stars in the high skies/ and among them is the beloved one.

In a moment, raindrops began to fall, and we all acted as if nothing had happened. Soon the drops were exhausted, the script ran out and people started asking for more, back at 17:00 García: Intertwining with each other,/ as ivy in the wall,/ and growing, growing,/ as moss in stone. Yes, yes, yes, yes...

It's a beautiful thing not to want to be somewhere else where and in the time you're in.