Diània

Diània

The songs don't reach us, the poet must have died
Bells toll for death!

And now we follow paths
Of sea and sky
The blue on the peaks
The sound of the wind

Divine pleasures, country: Diània
A Moorish lament
That I carry deep inside
Until the end

When I sing and the mountain dances
Where the bandits hide things
That they only told to the foxes
Wolves howled for Malafi

Enjoying the valleys in the deceitful nights
Feel the calm, salt and wine
Sublime. Salt the speech, Andalusians

Pick the fruit, uncover the chest, set the table
Around a roof the forty scoundrels
And some jugs refreshing in the waters of Pou Clar

Jubilant, knowing they are at home
Caresses of brambles, of pond lilies
When I moo, don't cry
Dance in the square

And a storm will come
And the poet will have died
And they will come and say
We no longer hear the songs

It will run downstream
It will take every letter away
And they will come and say
Now who will feed us?

The night filled with moonlight
The closed valley
The stars are brooches
The canal a mirror

That cries and sings a ballad
Dedicated to the souls that depart
Enchanted ravines
Pierced mountains

Ancestral paintings
The axes dance
If we all, like me, leave
To the city

Who will speak with the thousand-year-old olive trees?
Far from the beaches
And the concrete titans
The world breathes in
The valleys of the interior
In the old domains

Of the Moor with blue eyes
The fountains tell tales
Toads and frogs
Peace and love for those who celebrate

The solitudes
May it rain well
And not spoil the harvests
May these lands remain alive
The sweet figs and the dormant flames

And a storm will come
And the poet will have died
And they will come and say
We no longer hear the songs

It will run downstream
It will take every letter away
And they will come and say
Now who will feed us?

(This old valley made of dreams
Hideaway of loves and words
The one of a thousand and one scents and fresh springs
The one of winters of ice tears
The one of voices playing and silence

This old valley that I want forever green
Don't touch it, don't touch it if you're not here to love it)

And a storm will come
And the poet will have died
And they will come and say
We no longer hear the songs

It will run downstream
It will take every letter away
And they will come and say
Now who will feed us?