Hispania, Hispania

For two days the rain had poured, and as I open my window,

the rooftops of Paris glisten,

clouds settle on my table

and moist brightness sprinkles on my face.

Above houses, yet still I stand here in the depths,

the rain-beaten soot cries out to me

and I am ashamed in this dusk made

filthy by the languid mud and the news.

Oh raven-winged time of war,

terror seeping from the neighbours!

They no longer sow, nor do they reap,

and harvests shall take place no more.

Little birds don't sing, the sun does not shine in the sky,

and mothers no longer have any sons.

Only your bloody rivers flow on

murkily, Hispania!

But new forces will come, from nothing, if need be,

just like the wild hurricanes

from wounded fields and the troops marching

from the bottoms of the mines.

Peoples cry out you fate: liberty!

This afternoon again, they sang the song for you;

your battle was sung out with very heavy words

by the wet-faced Parisian poor.

1937.

(Translated by Gina Gönczi, 2004)