El Pais Perdido

Lost beneath Monte Perdido
lost you were, country.
My old County, lord of the mountains
you were letting yourself die.
Pride lost, future lost
lost, lost country.

Country of silences, of absences and forgetfulness,
sad mountains and loneliness.
Country without history, people without roots,
oak tree that dried up:
you were too much country, they only wanted water,
mountains and electricity.

The maps kept bringing your name
Who can forget you!
Proud peaks and swollen rivers
shouted: 'We are still here!'.
But divided and without fighting
we were losing you, country.

Perhaps bit by bit
the people who were made to leave took you away,
or under the waters of a dark swamp
you rest asleep and at peace,
just like at the foot of Peña Montañesa
the ruins of San Beturian.

I invoke your name, Country of Sobrarbe!
Arise, it's time to wake up!
I invoke your name, country of my parents,
country of my children you will be,
if the people who wrote the Fueros awaken
and that Aragon knew how to create.

From the Pyrenees to the Sierra de Guara,
every place is my place:
the Ara and the Cinca, the Cinqueta and La Fueva,
Sobrarbe as a whole is my home.
A divided house is a fallen house,
and together we will raise you up.

Come, gods who sleep beneath a dolmen!
Warriors and Saints come!
Children of History and our legends,
we ask for your help, come!
Cross the passes, old guerrillas,
let's reconquer the country!

January snowstorms, August thunderstorms,
beat the drum without stopping!
If we go united to this battle
the rays will once again place
a cross of fire over the oak tree,
and Sobrarbe will be reborn.