Mikhail Svetlov
Granada

We charged at the enemy,
Camped on the heath,
With «The Song of the Apple»
Caught in our teeth.
The rocks and the heather,
The newly-mown hay
Echo our song
To this very day.

But my pal sang another,
A song from afar,
As we rode in the saddle,
Pursuing our star.
He gazed at his homeland,
And dreamy his tone:
«Granada*, Granada,
Granada, my own.»

He sang it with feeling,
My pal from Ukraine,
Now why should he feel
Such devotion to Spain?
Can Kiev o can Kharkov
Explain the lad’s song?
Have Ukrainians been singing
In Spanish for long?

Tell me, Ukraine,
Is it not in this rye,
That the bones of Shevchenko,
The patriot, lie?
Why, pal, do you always
Sing When alone:
«Granada, Granada,
Granada, my own»?

The answer came slowly,
And shy was his look:
«It’s this way: Granada
I found in a book.
Somehow I liked it,
A damned pretty name.
In Spain there’s a province
That’s called by the same.

I went off to fight
With a gun and a pack
So the poor in Granada
Could get the land back.
Farewell to my family!
Farewell to my home!
«Granada, Granada,
Granada, my own!»

We learned, as we galloped,
To master at once
The grammar of battle,
The language of guns.
The sun rose above us,
Descended again,
Our horses grew weary
Of pounding the plain.

«The Song of the Apple»
Adapted its rhymes
To the rhythm of riding,
The woe of the times.
And where is your song, pal?
Listen … a moan?
«Granada, Granada,
Granada, my own.»

There he lay wounded,
Prone on the ground,
The first of our men
That a bullet found.
Full on his face
Fell the light of a star,
His pale lips murmured:
«Granada, Granà…»

Now he is one
Of the shadowy throng
In the Vale of Mists,
Where he sings his song.
We hardly noticed
The loss of a man;
«The Song of the Apple»
At daybreak began.

But softly, at nightfall,
The gentle rain
Mourned the Ukrainian
Fallen for Spain.
The song is forgotten,
The singer unknown:
«Granada, Granada,
Granada, my own.»

New songs are borne
On the turbulent air,
Saying you mustn’t
You mustn’t despair!
Ne nàda, ne nàda,
Ne nàda despair
For Granada, Granada,
Granada, the fair!

___
*The poet recalled how he came to write this poem: “I once saw a signboard ‘The Granada Hotel’. It prompted the crazy idea of writing a sort of serenade. But I felt it would be a pity to waste such a precious word on a trifle... I started singing to myself: ‘Granada, Granada...’ Who could sing it like that? Perhaps a Spaniard? That would be too obvious. Who then? Why, my young Ukrainian lad, of course... Many years later, analysing my state of mind then, I realised that by that time a strong sense of internationalism had accumulated in me. My comrades-in-arms were Russian, Chinese, Latvian, people of other nationalities too. What united us was our taking part in the Civil War. All I had to do was to engage first gear and my internationalism set off.” This poem was very popular in Spain in the 1930s.

Translated by Margaret Wettlin