La meva terra

My land is like a child,
never grateful, never knowing
if it turns harsh and full of mud
or green and flat and gives you a song.

My land never knows
whether to go back, move forward
full of scars, full of blood,
full of joy and full of song.

It doesn't have a flame that says yes,
but a spark always wants to say it;
it doesn't have a flame that says no,
but it has ash that hangs everything.

My land only has warmth
that sleeps and lasts inside a nest.
The wood and I who want to come out
wait for a flame to say yes.

Some want to take us forward,
living sparks in solitude;
others always want us stopped,
the ash weighs on the tired.