My beloved Spain,
this living Spain
this dead Spain
From your holy siesta
now you´re woken up
by poet´s verses.
Where are your eyes,
where are your hands,
where, your head?
My beloved Spain,
this Spain of mine,
this Spain of ours.
My beloved Spain,
this new Spain
this old Spain
From the quiet tilled fields,
from the balck bandages
over your open flesh.
¿Who suffered your hunger,
who drank your blood
when you were all dried up?
My beloved Spain,
this Spain of mine,
this Spain of ours.
My beloved Spain,
this doubtful Spain
this blind Spain.
A people of their word,
of sour skin,
yet promises so sweet.
I want to be your earth,
I want to be your grass
when I die.
My beloved Spain,
this Spain of mine,
this Spain of ours.