The Olive Harvesters (Aceituneros)

 

Andalusians of Jaén,
Proud harvesters of olives,
Tell me from your soul: who,
Who raised the olives groves?

 

Not money, not the man;
He did not sweat or toil
To raise them; he did nothing,
On the closed soil.

 

Together with the pure water
And the aligned planets,
The three gave the beautiful
Appearance of twined plants.

 

Arise, the white olive tree
Said to the wind’s feet.
And the olive tree raised
A hand solid as concrete.

 

Andalusians of Jaén,
Proud harvesters of olives,
Tell me from your soul: who,
Who nursed the olive groves?

 

Your blood, your life,
Not those of the culprit
Who became rich in the generous
Wound of you sweat.

 

Not that of the landowner
Who buried you in poverty,
Who beat you brow,
Who lowered your eyes.

 

Trees that your eagerness
Consecrated at midday
Were essential to bread
That only the other ate.

 

How many centuries of olive,
Of imprisioned feet and hands,
Sun to sun and moon to moon,
Weigh on your bones!

 

Andalusians of Jaén,
Proud harvesters of olives,
Ask my soul: who,
Who owns the olive groves?

 

Jaén, arise brave
On your lunar stones,
You are not going to be enslaved
With all your olive groves.

 

Within the clarity
Of the oil and its aromas
Appears your liberty,
The liberty of the loam.

 

(Miguel Hernández (1937). El viento del pueblo).
Traducción de: Ted Genoways.

 

 

Sad Wars (Tristes Guerras)

 

Sad wars
If love I not the aim.
Sad, sad.

 

Sad weapons
If they are not words.
Sad, sad.

 

Sad men
If they do not die for love.
Sad, Sad.

 

(Miguel Hernández (1941) Cancinero y romancero de ausencias).
Traducción de: Ted Genoways.

Se los dedico a mi abuela, como quiera que se encuentre ahora mismo. I miss you.

Momento nchi del día: levantarme con la agradable sensación de estar empezando a cuidarme un poquito más. ¿Y el tuyo?