“I was a child of the war, a child of thorns,
Who, beside the sea at Montdragó,
Had barbed wire in his guts.
But today I have returned with the tensest
And purest humanity to the rough bushes,
To the deep-green pines, to the grey rocks
With little greenery and the soul of the steppe.
I have contemplated, amongst the almond trees
So pink and the sober pines, the high
And violent sea and the other placid child,
Who I was not when I was playing at death.
I have seen your chubby, tender,
Little Antoni, simple as though the joy
From his face was washed with goodness.
And watching him plant green cuttings,
By my robust side I thought I saw
A new shoot of strange childhood,
which, in the grey and violent sea of Montdragó,
Was naked, warlike, sad and tall.”