Maria

Maria had two children, two boys of whom she was proud
And it was indeed the same flesh, and it was indeed the same blood

They grew up on this land, near the Mediterranean
They grew up in the light, between the olive and the orange tree
It was almost on their twentieth birthday that the civil war broke out
We saw Spain, red with blood, screaming in a motionless world

Maria's two boys were not in the same camp
They were not in the same fight, one was red, and the other white
Who of the two shot first, the day the guns spoke?
And which of the two killed himself on his brother's still warm body?

We don't know. All we know is that they were found together
White and red mixed with stones and ash
If you tell him about war, if you tell him about freedom
She will show you the stone where her children are buried

Maria had two children, two boys of whom she was proud
And it was indeed the same flesh, and it was indeed the same blood