Rota Oriental

Route, where are your orchards;
your melon, your pumpkin, your tomato, your watermelon?
You, the sweetest of ports
that the fine sand links to the neck of the bay,
tell me, where are your orchards?
- Oh poet, you see it well! Although not English,
from England what little is of this land
they already made me speak English.
- How to you, the most graceful and reedy from Cadiz
they call you: 'Eastern Route, Spain'... American?
- Oh poet, what pain!, even my beloved name,
who proclaims himself the Savior of Spain has sold it to me.
What will they do to your sea?
What will they do to your fields?
A military road, a port for death.
- Oh Rota of fishermen, Rota of sailboats!
Your viewpoints are already opening to a foreign sky
and sea. But do you sleep?
I watch over you by the bay.
Be the awake star that awakens Andalusia.
May your fruit boats
and your farmer sons go through all the coastlines
and the inland lands.
Spaniards, wake up! It's Rota, the sailor,
who raises the spring flame of Freedom!