Al Bando Vencido
Se van llevando la memoria,
queda en la historia una mancha, un borrón.
Mientras el resto sufre amnesia,
un viejo recuerda una canción,
de aquella lejana batalla
donde pudo morir,
en una guerra no ganada,
a veces me pregunta por ti.
Se cree aún en la trinchera,
otra bandera, de otro color,
solemne en su viento ondea,
sobre la cima y en su salón.
A veces habla con fantasmas
de cuyo nombre se olvidó.
Vencidos, nunca regresaron
de su exilio interior.
Ni un momento, ni un recuerdo,
para los que perdieron, los que construyeron
la tumba, el mausoleo,
de la miseria, del carnicero.
¿Cómo esperas ganar sin ellos
las batallas que anteriormente perdieron?
Si han de callar, que callen aquellos,
los que firmaron pactos de silencio.
Tratan de convencerle, abuelo,
las explosiones han terminado.
Pero cuando sale a la calle,
Madrid parece bombardeado.
Y lee escritos en los muros,
gritos contra los que luchó,
y personajes de rostro oscuro
que le inculcaron el terror.
Y un día, sin darnos cuenta,
el viejo, con sus historias, se consumió
Y en la memoria de su nieto
sólo una huella, un leve borrón,
de aquella lejana batalla,
donde pudo morir,
en una guerra no ganada
donde luchó por ti.
Donde luchó por ti.
To the Defeated Band
They are taking away the memory,
leaving in history a stain, a blot.
While the rest suffers amnesia,
an old man remembers a song,
from that distant battle
where he could have died,
in a war not won,
sometimes he asks about you.
He still believes in the trench,
another flag, of a different color,
solemnly waving in the wind,
over the summit and in his hall.
Sometimes he talks to ghosts
whose names he forgot.
Defeated, they never returned
from their inner exile.
Not a moment, not a memory,
for those who lost, those who built
the tomb, the mausoleum,
of misery, of the butcher.
How do you expect to win without them
the battles they previously lost?
If they are to be silent, let those be silent,
those who signed pacts of silence.
They try to convince him, grandfather,
the explosions have ended.
But when he goes out into the street,
Madrid seems bombed.
And he reads writings on the walls,
screams against those he fought,
and characters with dark faces
who instilled terror in him.
And one day, without us realizing,
the old man, with his stories, consumed himself
And in the memory of his grandson
only a trace, a faint blot,
from that distant battle,
where he could have died,
in a war not won
where he fought for you.
Where he fought for you.