maria-gallardo
60/F/Canary Islands-Spain
Mara Gallardo is a writer and poet from Spain. Her published work includes Cuentos para la ternura (2006) and the poetry collection Intimo (2013). Her latest poetry collection, Mujerisla, has recently been published by Editorial Taln de Aquiles.
There were five oceans between who I was
and the person I needed to become.
A gravity like lead,
pulling me away from my own center,
creating a whole world of silence,
within my chest.
But my love—
that stubborn, quiet spark of self-preservation—
tore the veil apart.
I didn’t need a miracle from the sky.
I became the sky.
I became the tide that overflowed the seas
to wash my own shores.
I walked the distance.
I touched the place where the pain used to live,
I looked at the "cross" of my own history—
the place where I used to sacrifice my peace—
and I saw it was empty.
No one hangs there anymore.
Not even the ghost of who I used to be.
My own love won.
Not a battle against the world,
but a victory over the distance I had put
between my heart and my hands.
The horizon is no longer a wall.
It is an open door.
And I am finally
home.
©️ María Gallardo
Jan 11
Jan 11, 2026 at 3:31 AM UTC
Born from my shadow, not from the radiant sun,
Are the notes I sing, my vibrant pulse.
From that old fear, which made me tremble,
Sprouts the seed of a new song.
Each phantom that dwells at my temple,
Each ancient shadow that tells me "no,"
becomes the ink, the ember, the ground,
for the blank canvas that has finally found its voice.
I do not hide the wound, nor quench the terror.
I look it in the eye, I invite it to my table.
It is the fire that forges the sculptor.
Transforms anguish into a vital promise.
Oh, profound night in which I was imprisoned!
Today you are the guide, the map, the boundary.
I transform the burden into steady flight,
And personal fear teaches me how to live.
Let the monster not be silent; let it be my engine.
Let the ancient doubt propel me to create.
Because in every crack a flower hides,
And my own shadow teaches me to dream.
©️ María Gallardo
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 4:20 AM UTC
Christmas, you’re drawing near.
The tree is already decorated.
With shiny baubles and colourful ribbons,
But in my heart, there is no Christmas.
I wish I had a tree.
Where the absent live so deep within me,
Where people feel warmth and tenderness,
And children know nothing of hunger,
Violence, war.
If my heart could do it,
My tree would be strong, long, very long.
Roots would welcome anyone in need of help.
And protect them from all harm.
Perhaps my heart isn’t enough.
Yet the seed of this tree,
I sow in every act.
So that it may grow in others.
And the world may be a little more sacred.
©️ María Gallardo
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 8:07 AM UTC
I’ll dress up for myself tonight.
I’ll wear that dress I bought myself.
I’ll style my hair the way I like.
I’ll put on an innocent look in my eyes.
And a touch of mischief on my lips.
I’ll wear violet perfume.
And then I’ll go out to dinner.
With my friend, Solitude.
©️ María Gallardo
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
Freedom walks with steps like the wind.
Her laughter is the echo of a thousand voices.
A woman of many hands, hugs,
weaving dreams with threads of hope.
In her eyes shines the light of a thousand dawns.
She is strength, love, the constant struggle.
Her words are beacons in the storm,
a melody that invites us to fly.
For every chain she seeks to break, she
creates bridges of understanding and peace.
©️María Gallardo
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 3:09 AM UTC
A sky so blue, a heart so full.
A dream realised, two souls intertwined.
Sunshine shines on the sound of laughter.
The soft enchantment of love is everywhere.
However, gentle murmurs, a cool wind,
among the Happy trees’ leaves.
A shadow descends, a quiet area,
Where tears take the place of joy.
For even love, so profound and powerful,
Sleep is a must, a commitment to uphold.
A waiting silence behind the light,
The reverberation of a dying flush.
©María Gallardo
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 11:48 AM UTC
She returns to where oblivion began,
rummaging through the wreckage of a shattered clock,
trying to mend the gears, frayed by the passage of years.
She finds nothing but her own distorted,
almost imperceptible form, slowly dying
as memory dies where the clock hands stopped.
©️ María Gallardo
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 11:21 AM UTC
Tu amor tan mío
que en mí se queda.
Es raíz de mi piel,
íntima savia.
Se ancla profundo
al pulso de mi pecho,
un nudo tenso
que es mi latido.
Y en el vientre,
un hilo invisible
cose tu nombre,
el de mi origen.
©️María Gallardo
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 11:18 AM UTC