Winds of the people carry me along
Wind of the people
Winds of the people carry me along, winds of the people pull me along, they sprinkle my heart about and bring air to my throat. Oxen bow down their brows, impotent and meek, when punished: lions raise theirs and at the same time they inflict punishment with their clamorous claws. I am not from a people of oxen, I am from a people who embody ancient settlements of lions, high passes of eagles and mountain ranges of bulls bearing pride as their flag. Oxen never prospered on the barren plains of Spain. Who said they would throw a yoke round the neck of this race? Who has ever yoked or hobbled a hurricane, or who has held lightning prisoner in a cage? Asturians of bravery, Basques of reinforced stone, Valencians of joy and Castilians of soul, worked like the earth and with the grace of wings; Andalusians of lightning born amongst guitars and forged on the torrential anvils of tears; Extremadurans of rye, Galicians of rain and calm, Catalans of firmness, Aragonese of age-old caste, Murcians of dynamite planted like fruit trees, Leonese, Navarrans, masters of hunger, sweat and the axe, kings of the mines, lords of labour, men who, amongst the roots, like valiant roots yourselves, go from life to death, from nothing to nothing: there are people who, like weeds, want to put a yoke on you, a yoke which you must leave broken across their backs. Twilight of the oxen dawn is breaking. Oxen die clothed in humility and the smell of the stable: eagles, lions and bulls die clothed in pride, and behind them, the sky neither clouds over nor comes to an end. The death-agony of oxen has a small face, that of the male animal enlarges all of creation. If I die, may I die with my head held high. Dead and twenty times dead, my mouth against the wild grass, I will have my teeth clenched and my jaw resolute. Singing I await death, for there are nightingales that sing above the guns and in the midst of battles.
Winds of the people carry me along, winds of the people pull me along, they sprinkle my heart about and bring air to my throat. Oxen bow down their brows, impotent and meek, when punished: lions raise theirs and at the same time they inflict punishment with their clamorous claws. I am not from a people of oxen, I am from a people who embody ancient settlements of lions, high passes of eagles and mountain ranges of bulls bearing pride as their flag. Oxen never prospered on the barren plains of Spain. Who said they would throw a yoke round the neck of this race? Who has ever yoked or hobbled a hurricane, or who has held lightning prisoner in a cage? Asturians of bravery, Basques of reinforced stone, Valencians of joy and Castilians of soul, worked like the earth and with the grace of wings; Andalusians of lightning born amongst guitars and forged on the torrential anvils of tears; Extremadurans of rye, Galicians of rain and calm, Catalans of firmness, Aragonese of age-old caste, Murcians of dynamite planted like fruit trees, Leonese, Navarrans, masters of hunger, sweat and the axe, kings of the mines, lords of labour, men who, amongst the roots, like valiant roots yourselves, go from life to death, from nothing to nothing: there are people who, like weeds, want to put a yoke on you, a yoke which you must leave broken across their backs. Twilight of the oxen dawn is breaking. Oxen die clothed in humility and the smell of the stable: eagles, lions and bulls die clothed in pride, and behind them, the sky neither clouds over nor comes to an end. The death-agony of oxen has a small face, that of the male animal enlarges all of creation. If I die, may I die with my head held high. Dead and twenty times dead, my mouth against the wild grass, I will have my teeth clenched and my jaw resolute. Singing I await death, for there are nightingales that sing above the guns and in the midst of battles.
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