Texts - A Procession Winding Around Me
La Guerra
Pues la guerra està en las manos y para guerra nacemos,
bien será nos ensayemos
para vencer los tiranos.
El capitán de esta lid
de nuestra parte, sabed
que es el hijo de David
y de la otra es Luzbel.
Y potráse decir de él
sin que nadie lo reproche:
“Quien bien tiene y mal escoge por mal que le venga, no s’enoje” Esta es guerra de primor
do se requiere destreza. Pregónese con presteza,
con pífano y atambor.
Farirarirá…
Todos los buenos soldados
que asentaren a esta guerra
no quieren ir descansados.
Si salieren con victoria,
la paga que les darán
será que sempre tendrán
en el cielo eterna gloria.
El contrario es fanfarrón
y flaco contra lo fuerte.
Ordénese el escuadrón,
que no se escape de muerte.
La vanguardia llevarán
los del Viejo Testamento,
la batalla el capitán,
con los más fuertes que están con él en su alojamiento.
La Iglesia la retarguarda.
Sus, todos al escuadrón, mientras digo una canción:
“Pues nacistes, rey del cielo,
acá en la tierra,
quieres sentar en la guerra?
A sóle eso he venido
desd’el cielo
por la guerra que he sabido
acá en el suelo.
Yo seré vuestro consuelo
acá en la tierra,
que a sentar vengo a la guerra.” Viva, viva nuestro capitán! Falala… Topetop…
Sus, poned la artillería
de devotos pensamientos. Démosle la bateria.
Las trincheras bien están.
Hacia acá tiro grueso!
Oh, que tiene tan gran peso
que no le derribarán.
Bien está, ponedle fuego
y luego, luego.
Bom, bom, peti pata…
Suelte la arcabucería
Tif tof tif tof…
For the war is at hand
And as for war we were born,
It would be good for us to venture upon it To vanquish the tyrants.
The captain of this combat
On our side, you should know,
Is the son of David,
And on the other he is Lucifer.
And one could say,
Without anyone’s reproach,
“He who has good in him and chooses evil, If evil befalls him, let him not complain.”
It is a war of skill
That demands great dexterity.
Proclaim it without delay
With fife and drum.
Farirarirà…
All the good soldiers
Who enrol in this war,
Let them expect nothing in this world.
If they emerge victorious,
The pay they will be given
Will be that they will have
Eternal glory in heaven.
The adversary is a blusterer
And feeble before such might.
Line up the squadron,
So that he will not escape death.
The vanguard will be
Those of the Old Testament,
The captain of the battle
With the strongest who will be
With him in his billet.
The Church will be the rear-guard.
Up, everyone to the squadron,
While I sing a song:
“Since thou wast born, King of Heaven, Down here on earth,
Wilt thou enrol in the war?
‘For this alone I have come
Down from heaven,
For I learnt of the war
Down here on earth.
I shall be your comfort
Down here on earth,
For I have come to enrol in the war.’”
Long live our captain!
Falala… Topetop…
Up, deploy the artillery
Of devout thoughts.
Send in the battery.
The entrenchments are good.
This way with the big cannon!
Oh, it is so heavy
That it cannot be overturned.
That’s fine, fire it,
Quickly, quickly.
Bom, bom, peti pata…
Unleash the musketry
Tif tof tif tof…
Romancero Gitano
1. Baladilla de los tres ríos
El río Guadalquivir
va entre naranjos y olivos.
Los dos ríos de Granada
bajan de la nieve al trigo.
¡Ay, amor
que se fue y no vino!
El río Guadalquivir
tiene las barbas granates.
Los dos ríos de Granada
uno llanto y otro sangre.
¡Ay, amor
que se fue por el aire!
Para los barcos de vela,
Sevilla tiene un camino;
por el agua de Granada
sólo reman los suspiros.
¡Ay, amor
que se fue y no vino!
Guadalquivir, alta torre
y viento en los naranjales.
Dauro y Genil, torrecillas
muertas sobre los estanques.
¡Ay, amor
que se fue por el aire!
¡Quién dirá que el agua lleva
un fuego fatuo de gritos!
¡Ay, amor
que se fue y no vino!
Lleva azahar, lleva olivas,
Andalucía, a tus mares.
¡Ay, amor
que se fue por el aire!
1. Song of the Three Rivers
The river Guadalquivir
flows between oranges and olives.
The two rivers of Granada
descend from the white snows to the wheat fields.
Ah, love that left,
never to return!
The Guadalquivir
has a beard of garnet.
The two rivers of Granada,
one of tears and one of blood.
Ah, love that flew,
into thin air!
For boats under sail,
Seville has a channel;
In the waters of Granada,
only sighs remain.
Ah, love that left,
never to return!
Guadalquivir, high tower
and wind in the orange groves.
Dauro and Genil,
lifeless cairns above the ponds.
Ah, love that flew,
into thin air!
Who can say how the waters carry a
vain fire of cries!
Ah, love that left,
never to return!
Carry orange blossoms, carry olives,
Andalucia, down to the sea.
Ah love that flew,
into thin air!
2. La Guitarra
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Es inútil callarla.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora monótona
como llora el agua,
como llora el viento
sobre la nevada.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora por cosas
lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente
que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
la tarde sin mañana,
y el primer pájaro muerto
sobre la rama.
¡Oh, guitarra!
Corazón malherido
por cinco espadas.
2. The guitar
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
The cups of dawn
are broken.
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
It is useless to silence it.
It is impossible
to silence it.
It cries, monotonously,
as the waters cry,
as the wind cries
over the snowfall.
It is impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for things
far away.
It asks the Sands of the South
for white camellias.
It cries for the arrow without a target,
for the afternoon without a morning,
and for the first bird who dies
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart wounded
by five swords.
3. Puñal
El puñal
entra en el corazón,
como la reja del arado
en el yermo.
No.
No me lo claves.
No.
El puñal,
como un rayo de sol,
incendia las terribles
hondonadas.
No.
No me lo claves.
No.
3. Dagger
The dagger
pierces the heart
like the blade of the plow
in dry mud.
No.
Do not stab me.
No.
The dagger,
like a ray of sun,
burns the desolate
ravines.
No.
Do not stab me.
No.
4. Procesión
Procesión
Por la calleja vienen
extraños unicornios.
¿De qué campo,
de qué bosque mitológico?
Más cerca,
ya parecen astrónomos.
Fantásticos Merlines
y el Ecce Homo,
Durandarte encantado.
Orlando furioso.
Paso
Virgen con miriñaque,
virgen de la Soledad,
abierta como un inmenso
tulipán.
En tu barco de luces
vas
por la alta marea
de la ciudad,
entre saetas turbias
y estrellas de cristal.
Virgen con miriñaque
tú vas
por el río de la calle,
¡hasta el mar!
Saeta
Cristo moreno
pasa
de lirio de Judea
a clavel de España.
¡Miradlo, por dónde viene!
De España.
Cielo limpio y oscuro,
tierra tostada,
y cauces donde corre
muy lenta el agua.
Cristo moreno,
con las guedejas quemadas,
los pómulos salientes
y las pupilas blancas.
¡Miradlo, por dónde va!
IV. Procession
Procession
Down the road come
strange unicorns.
From what fields,
what mythological woods?
Circling closer
They look like astronomers.
Ghostly Merlins
and the condemned Christ,
Enchanted Durandarte,
Orlando Furioso.
Paso
Virgin with glittering crinoline skirts,
virgin of solitude,
Opening like an immense
tulip.
In your boat of lights
you sail
with the high tide
of the city,
among gypsy songs
and crystal stars.
Virgin with glittering crinoline skirts,
you float
on the river of the street –
to the sea!
Saeta
The swarthy Christ
transforms
from the lily of Judea
to the carnation of Spain.
Look where he’s coming from!
From Spain,
the sky, clean and dark,
the earth scorched,
and ditches where
water runs very slowly.
Swarthy Christ,
his locks of hair burned,
his cheekbones protruding
and his pupils white.
Look where he’s going!
5. Memento
Cuando yo me muera,
enterradme con mi guitarra
bajo la arena.
Cuando yo me muera,
entre los naranjos
y la hierbabuena.
Cuando yo me muera,
enterradme si queréis
en una veleta.
¡Cuando yo me muera!
5. Memento
When I die,
bury me with my guitar
under the sand.
When I die,
between the orange trees
and the peppermint.
When I die,
bury me, as you wish,
on a weather vane.
When I die!
6. Baile
La Carmen está bailando
por las calles de Sevilla.
Tiene blancos los cabellos
y brillantes las pupilas.
¡Niñas, corred las cortinas!
En su cabeza se enrosca
una serpiente amarilla,
y va soñando en el baile
con galanes de otros días.
¡Niñas, corred las cortinas!
Las calles están desiertas
y en los fondos se adivinan,
corazones andaluces
buscando viejas espinas.
¡Niñas, corred las cortinas!
6. Dance
Carmen is dancing
in the streets of Seville.
Her hair is white
and her pupils sparkle.
Girls, close the curtains!
Around her head is entwined
a yellow snake.
And she is dreaming, dancing
with gentlemen from the past.
Girls, close the curtains!
The streets are deserted
and in the shadows are gleamed
Andalucian hearts
Unearthing old sorrows.
Girls, close the curtains!
7. Crótalo
Crótalo.
Crótalo.
Crótalo.
Escarabajo sonoro.
En la araña
de la mano
rizas el aire
cálido,
y te ahogas en tu trino
de palo.
Crótalo.
Crótalo.
Crótalo.
Escarabajo sonoro.
7. Castanet
Castanet.
Castanet.
Castanet.
Raucous black beetle.
In the spider legs
of a hand
you curl the hot
air
and drown in your trill
of wood.
Castanet.
Castanet.
Castanet.
Raucous black beetle.
A Procession Winding Around Me
I. By the bivouac’s fitful flame
By the bivouac’s fitful flame,
A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow – but first I note,
The tents of the sleeping army, the fields’ and woods’ dim outline,
The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence,
Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,
The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily watching me,)
While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,
Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of those that are far away;
A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
By the bivouac’s fitful flame.
II. Beat! Beat! Drums!
Beat! beat! drums! – blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows – through doors – burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
[Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet – no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums – so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums! – blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities – over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses?
No sleepers must sleep in those beds —
[No bargainers bargains by day – no brokers or speculators – would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums! – blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley – stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid – mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums – so loud you bugles blow.
III. Look Down, Fair Moon
Look down, fair moon and bathe this scene,
Pour softly down night’s nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple;
On the dead, on their backs, with [their]1 arms toss’d wide,
Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon.
IV. Reconciliation
Word over all, beautiful as the sky!
Beautiful that war, and all its deeds of carnage,
must in time be utterly lost;
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night,
incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil’d world:
…For my enemy is dead — a man divine as myself is dead;
I look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin — I draw near;
I bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.
