Mo

White with chaos, looking north,
Early sun lights up her face
And Mo climbs from the port
Through the ancient paths of its coasts.

Ship stranded on the sand
Licking the sea in retreat.
Hideaway of furtive winds.
Refuge of tired sails.

The bride cries in the orchard
Sheltered from the north wind
And the humble town of light streets
Murmurs everyday stories

Of small heroes and brief glories
Seeking their daily bread,
Who make praises with pastries
And feats of jewelry.

Mo

With prayers and tears and on knees
Winter passes little by little.
Lighting the fire and the knife
With pig's blood is purified.

Under the salty and cold mistral
Twisted the wild olive tree crouches
And through the path leading west
The sun rushes to hide.

But the dark time, defeated bird,
Emigrates when from the hill
Slides quietly towards the port
A sweet scent of thyme.

Shaking off the cold, removing the mourning,
Looking for the path leading to the sand
And at night cannons rain down
Of sailors and sirens.

Mo

Towards dusk, to drink the sea,
Dying of thirst the bush descends
And the talayot climbs to the sky
In case the pirates return.

Filled with fish return the boats
Chasing clouds of seagulls
And the city, in the mirror
Of the water, turbidly combs itself.

A horse neighs, a flute plays
And an ancient cry of gin and party
Spreads across the island like fire
From the west like a plague.

And when autumn plays the drums
Of the strong rain,
Miserably, it dozes off
With tales of fairies and witches.

Mo

Or in Menorca, improvised song.
Or sweet Menorcan cliché.
Or putting the horse on two legs