Herria eta hizkuntza

One day in the past, in a tavern,
two friends were chatting, not just for show;
both were honest Basques, after all,
yet unable to agree with each other;
I find myself listening in a sad mood.

I can't fully grasp a parable,
spoken in Spanish, he knew how:
caring for our beloved land,
this, his main concern, the other's mind elsewhere,
'Long live the Basque Country,' in French he'd vow.

The other one burst out in pure Basque:
'Our language will not be lost for sure!
That's our essence in the Basque Country,
we stand out in others' winter;
we've been French-made for too long!'

In those two men, a good tree
one had the fruit, the other the branch;
that strange thing I don't like,
even though I live in the mountains, I see
the acorn disguised as a chestnut.

One raising the land as a plow,
the plow desiring the land's word;
ours has been done, speaking clearly,
lost like a shadow in the fog
they can't both serve the same master!

As they argue with each other,
they both have the same thing in mind;
I want to show them the ropes,
our language and our Basque Country
I compare them to a single existence.

Listen, siblings, to my voice:
an existence can't be filled with bones;
the land is the body, the language the heart;
from each other, a piece of each,
for the existence of horror, death is certain.

Some forget about the land, neglecting Basque,
others love Basque, despising the land;
language and land don't go separately,
they want to make it clear
without one another, they can't live.