Campanades a morts

Funeral bells
shout for the war
of the three sons they have lost
the three black bells.

And the town gathers
as the lament approaches,
they are already three more sorrows
that we must carry in memory.

Funeral bells
for the three closed mouths,
woe to that troubadour
who forgets the three notes!

Who has cut off all the breath
of these young bodies,
with no other treasure
than the reason of those who weep?

Murderers of reasons, of lives,
may you never find rest in any of your days
and may our memories haunt you in death.

Funeral bells
shout for the war
of the three sons they have lost
the three black bells.

II

Open my belly
for their rest,
from my gardens
bring the best flowers.

For these men
dig deep for me,
and in my body
engrave their name.

May no storm
disturb the sleep
of those who have died
without having their heads bowed.

III

Only seventeen years
and you so old;
jealous of the light in their eyes,
you wanted to close their eyelids,
but you won't be able to, as we all keep that light
and our eyes will be flashes for your evenings.

Only seventeen years
and you so old;
envious of such young beauty,
you wanted to tear their limbs,
but you won't be able to, as we have memory of their body
and every night we will learn to love them.

Only seventeen years
and you so old;
impotent for the love he had,
you gave him death as a companion,
but you won't be able to, as for what he loved,
our bodies will always be in spring.

Only seventeen years
and you so old;
envious of such young beauty,
you wanted to tear their limbs,
but you won't be able to, as we all keep that light
and our eyes will be flashes for your evenings.

IV

Misery became a poet
and wrote in the fields
in the form of trenches,
and men went towards them.
Each one was a word
of the victorious poem.