Al Bando Vencido

They are taking away the memory,
leaving in history a stain, a blot.
While the rest suffers amnesia,
an old man remembers a song,

from that distant battle
where he could have died,
in a war not won,
sometimes he asks about you.

He still believes in the trench,
another flag, of a different color,
solemnly waving in the wind,
over the summit and in his hall.

Sometimes he talks to ghosts
whose names he forgot.
Defeated, they never returned
from their inner exile.

Not a moment, not a memory,
for those who lost, those who built
the tomb, the mausoleum,
of misery, of the butcher.

How do you expect to win without them
the battles they previously lost?
If they are to be silent, let those be silent,
those who signed pacts of silence.

They try to convince him, grandfather,
the explosions have ended.
But when he goes out into the street,
Madrid seems bombed.

And he reads writings on the walls,
screams against those he fought,
and characters with dark faces
who instilled terror in him.

And one day, without us realizing,
the old man, with his stories, consumed himself
And in the memory of his grandson
only a trace, a faint blot,

from that distant battle,
where he could have died,
in a war not won
where he fought for you.

Where he fought for you.