One cold damp night, winds pierced the cliffs,
Spain dragged its armor to the north,
And the trumpet of the crazed trumpeter Wailed on into the morning.
The soldiers moved their guns from battle,
The peasants drove forward their stunned cattle,
And the little ones carried with them toys —
Amongst them a doll with a gash in its mouth.
They gave birth to babies right there in the fields,
Swaddled them in suffering and went on their way,
Went on their way so’s to die on their feet.
The bonfires still burned to signal their leaving,
The trumpet’s bronze notes still hung in the air;
But somehow more sad, more miraculous yet
Was the hand which still clung to its fistful of earth,
On that night when the songs were set free from their words,
And villages drifted past them like ships.
В сырую ночь ветра точили скалы.
Испания, доспехи волоча,
На север шла. И до утра кричала
Труба помешанного трубача.
Бойцы из боя выводили пушки.
Крестьяне гнали одуревший скот.
А детвора несла свои игрушки,
И был у куклы перекошен рот.
Рожали в поле, пеленали мукой
И дальше шли, чтоб стоя умереть.
Костры еще горели — пред разлукой,
Трубы еще не замирала медь.
Что может быть печальней и чудесней —
Рука еще сжимала горсть земли.
В ту ночь от слов освобождались песни
И шли деревни, будто корабли.