In memory of Pepe Hierro, a few days after his centenary


A few days after the centenary of the birth Joseph Ironhis friend Andres Amoros wanted to remember it It’s morning Federico. He let it run to begin his special tribute, a precious poem Lifespan, “a baroque sonnet worthy of Quevedo”, read by Hierro himself. Says like this:

‘Cause everything was nothing

despite the fact that once it was all.

After nothing or after everything

I knew that everything was nothing more than nothing.

I shout “Everything!” and the echo says “Nothing!”

I scream “Nothing!” and the echo says “Everything!”

Now I know that nothing was everything

and everything was ashes from nowhere.

Nothing remains of what was nothing.

(It was an illusion that believed everything

and in the end it’s nothing).

What difference does it make that nothing was nothing

if nothing else, in the end,

after so many it’s all in vain.

Then he reminded him of how he had always been: “Ordinary person”. “Pepe was like that. He resisted entering the Academy, for example, because he said that, knowing nothing, he did not draw anything surrounded by so many scientists. And also that he lived his life without malice. “Obviously he was not a Francoist, but he made his life, he worked for Radio Nacional and never took offense at anything.” What he liked best, says his friend, “was till the field“. “His pride grew some of the wine he made with his own hands. He said that life is what gave him health. And his poetry, therefore, was also simple.He always ran from rhetoric“. To illustrate, read the poem: Requiem, and recommends any of his anthologies, such as those from the Austral collection. The poem goes like this:

Manuel del Rio natural

Spain, died on Saturday

May 11, as a result

from an accident. his corpse

lies on D’Agostino

Funeral service. Haskell. New Jersey.

Mass will be celebrated

at 9:30 in St. Francis.

This is the story that begins

with sun and stone and it ends

on the table, in D’Agostino,

with flowers and electric candles.

This is the story that begins

on the coast of the Atlantic.

Stay in the cabin

third, over the waves

– above the clouds – the earth

sank before Plato.

Find your end in America

with tap and clinic,

with note and mass

sung in the church of St. Francis.


Your grandparents

they fertilized the whole earth,

they plunged her into adventure.

When the Spaniard fell

The universe has been corrupted.

They were watching them not in D’Agostino

Funeral home, but between the fires,

between horses and weapons. Heroes

forever. face statues

erased. dresses more

his parrot color,

strength and fantasy.

He didn’t fall like that. he didn’t die

not beautiful madness.

(a long time ago the Spaniards

dies of anonymity and sanity,

or in heartbreaking madness

between brothers: when he strikes

skins of wine spills

fraternal blood). came one day

because their land is poor. Peace

Release me Domina – motherland.

And he died. He did not find cities.

He did not give his name to the sea. don’t do

more than die for seventeen

dollars (he would have thought they

in pesetas) Requiem aeternam.

And in D’Agostino they visit him

Poles, Irish,

Spaniards, those who die

on the weekend.


definitely everything

finished. his corpse

lies on D’Agostino

Funeral service. Haskell. New Jersey.

Mass will be celebrated

for his soul.

I have limited myself

display obituary here

from a New York newspaper.

Objectively. no flight

in verse Objectively.

Spaniard like millions

Spaniards. I didn’t tell anyone

that I was about to cry.


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