Oda

I hear, homeland, your affliction,
And I listen to the sad concert
Formed, playing for the dead,
The bell and the cannon;
Above your unconquered banner
I see floating banners,
And I hear rising to other regions
In funeral stanzas,
From the church the prayers,
And from art the songs.

You cry, because they insulted you
Those who offered you their love
To you, whom they always feared
Because they admired your glory;
To you, before whom they bowed
The worlds from zone to zone;
To you, proud matron
Who, free from foreign yoke,
Has had no greater executioner
Than the weight of your crown!

Wherever my mind takes
Its swift wings,
There a tomb rises
Telling of your bravery.
From the fierce summit
That the Indian sun tans,
To Africa, which sacrifices
Its sons in a foolish war,
There is not a handful of land
Without a Spanish tomb!

A slave cannot be,
A people who knows how to die
The world trembled at your legions,
And from the terrified sphere
They held back the course
The claws of your lions.
No one humiliated your banners
Nor snatched victory from you;
For from your giant glory
The fruitful lightning does not fit,
Neither in the world's domains,
Nor in the book of history.

Always in unequal struggle
They sing your invincible arrogance,
Sagunto, Cadiz, Numancia,
Zaragoza and San Marcial.
In your virginal soil
Strange laws do not take root;
Because, untamed and fierce
They know how to make their vassals
Bits for their horses
With foreign scepters.
A slave cannot be,
A people who knows how to die