Coplas de Juan Panadero

The box of my guitar
is not a box, it's a dungeon,
a prison where Spain suffers.

The walls of the jail
are made of wood, wood,
from where no one leaves.

The strings are the bars,
the little iron window
through which my voices pass.

And the tuning pegs, what are they
if not the keys that tighten
the light of my heart?

Now I start to sing
couplets that carry more blood
than the sands carried by the sea.

I sing now to the fallen ones,
to those who, while on earth,
are already being born in the wheat.

My best mourning will be
to shoulder a rifle
and go to the mountains to fight.

Nothing discourages me,
for a guerrilla fighter is a bull
in the middle of a storm.

They wounded me, they beat me
and even gave me death,
but they never broke me!

Now I want to name,
not my name, because mine
is like that of others.

Blood of Gómez Gayoso,
pure blood, brave blood,
blood of Antonio Seoane,
of Diéguez, of Larrañaga,
of Roza, Cristino and Vía,
valleys of blood, mountains!

Blood of Agustín Zoroa!
Sea of spilled blood!
Blood of Manuela Sánchez!
Precious blood of Spain!

I don't want to keep naming
more blood, as my guitar
too is bleeding out.

But even if its voice dies,
its voice will keep singing
to the guerrilla Spain.

It will always keep singing
and keep cursing
until the rooster of dawn
crows that it's dawning.