“My little daughter is dead”: the heartbreaking poem chosen by the mother of Puma Domínguez’s wife

News of the death of María Victoria De La Mota Claverie, wife of Argentine golfer Emilio “Puma” Domínguez, sent shockwaves through the golf world this weekend. The 38-year-old San Luis man had to withdraw from a tournament in Guadalajara when he learned that his wife’s health had worsened while she was hospitalized for contracting dengue in San Luis. The tragic outcome occurred on Saturday while the athlete was returning to Argentina and was confirmed in the first instance by the official website of the Latin American PGA circuit.

El Puma Domínguez and De La Mota Claverie were married in 2016 and had two children: Constantino and Hipólito, aged 1 and 4. As soon as the news of her death spread, the networks were flooded with photos of the couple and messages of grief.

Victoria said goodbye on Sunday in the Garden of Remembrance of the San Luis capital with a heartfelt ceremony. And in these hours, a moving poem is known that her mother, Lis Claverie, dedicated to him in the midst of profound pain.

It is a text written by the poet Miguel Hernández, known as Elegía. And the writing begins with a very harsh sentence: “My little daughter is dead”.

Victoria’s mother is a writer and has a black background on her social media avatar, a clear sign of mourning. Following her chosen lines that describe the love of a mother who has lost her daughter is truly heartbreaking.

The complete poem of the mother of María Victoria de La Mota Claverie

My little daughter is dead.

I want to cry, gardener of the land you occupy and fertilize, companion of the soul, so soon.

Feeding rains, shells and organs, my pain without instrument, to the discouraged poppies, I will give your heart as food.

So much pain builds up in my side, that even my breathing hurts from the pain.

A hard slap, a cold blow, an invisible and deadly ax blow, a brutal push knocked you to the ground.

There is no greater extension than my wound, I cry for my misfortune and its combinations and I feel your death more than my life.

I walk on the stubble of the dead, and without warmth from anyone and without comfort I go from my heart to my things.

Soon death arose, flight, early dawn arose, soon you will roll on the ground.

They do not forgive death in love, they do not forgive careless life, they do not forgive the earth and nothingness.

In my hands I raise a storm of stones, lightning and screeching axes, thirsty for catastrophes and hungry.

I want to dig the earth with my teeth, I want to separate the earth piece by piece with dry, warm teeth.

I want to dig the earth until I find you and kiss your noble skull, gag you and give you back.

You will return to my garden and my fig tree: your soul, hive of waxes and angelic works, will bird along the high scaffolding of flowers. You will return to the cooing of loving farmers’ bars.

You will illuminate the shadow of my eyebrows, and your blood will go both ways disputing your bride and the bees.

Your heart, already worn velvet, calls the voice of my greedy lover in a field of foaming almonds.

I ask the winged souls of the cream almond roses, that we must talk about many things, soul mate, companion…