JARA, Victor
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en esta pequeña parte la ciudad. Somos cinco mil. ¿Cuántos somos en total en las ciudades y en todo el país? Sólo aquí, diez mil manos que siembran y hacen andar las fábricas. Cuánta humanidad con hambre, frío, pánico, dolor, presión moral, terror y locura. Seis de los nuestros se perdieron en el espacio de las estrellas. Uno muerto, un golpeado como jamás creí se podría golpear a un ser humano. Los otros cuatro quisieron quitarse todos los temores, uno saltando al vacío, otro golpeándose la cabeza contra un muro pero todos con la mirada fija en la muerte. ¡Qué espanto produce el rostro del fascismo! Llevan a cabo sus planes con precisión artera sin importarles nada. La sangre para ellos son medallas. La matanza es un acto de heroísmo. ¿Es este el mundo que creaste, Dios mío? ¿Para esto tus siete días de asombro y de trabajo? En estas cuatro murallas sólo existe un número que no progresa. Que lentamente querrá más la muerte. Pero de pronto me golpea la consciencia y veo esta marea sin latido y veo el pulso de las máquinas y los militares mostrando su rostro de matrona llena de dulzura. ¿Y México, Cuba y el mundo? ¡Qué griten esta ignominia! Somos diez mil manos menos que no producen. ¿Cuántos somos en toda la patria? La sangre del compañero Presidente golpea más fuerte que bombas y metrallas. Así golpeará nuestro puño nuevamente. Canto, qué mal me sales* cuando tengo que cantar espanto. Espanto como el que vivo como el que muero, espanto. De verme entre tantos y tantos momentos de infinito en que el silencio y el grito son las metas de este canto. Lo que veo nunca vi. Lo que he sentido y lo que siento harán brotar el momento...
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In this small part of the city. Five thousand. How many of us are there in all In the cities and in all the country? Here we are, ten thousand hands Who plant the seeds and keep the factories running. So much humanity, hungry, cold, panicked, in pain, Under moral duress, terrified out of their minds! Six of ours lost themselves In the space of the stars. One man dead, one man beaten worse than I ever thought It was possible to beat a human being. The other four wanted to free themselves of all their fear. One jumped into the void. Another beat his head against the wall. But all had the fixed look of death in their eyes. What fear is provoked by the face of fascism! They carry out their plans with the utmost precision, not giving a damn about anything. For them, blood is a medal. Killing is an act of heroism. My God, is this the world You created? Is this the product of Your seven days of wonders and labour? In these four walls, there is nothing but a number that does not move forward. That, gradually, will grow to want death. But my conscience suddenly awakens me And I see this tide without a pulse And I see the pulse of the machines And the soldiers, showing their matronly faces, full of tenderness. And Mexico, Cuba, and the world? Let them cry out of this ignominy! We are ten thousand fewer hands that do not produce. How many of us are there throughout our homeland? The blood of our comrade the President pulses with more strength than bombs and machine guns. And so, too, will our fist again beat. Song, how hard it is sing you when I have to sing in fear! Fear like that in which I live, and from which I am dying, fear. Of seeing myself amidst so much, and so many endless moments In which silence and outcry are the targets of this song. What have never seen before, what I have felt and what I feel now
Will make the moment break out...
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Te recuerdo Amanda
I remember you, Amanda
The wet street
running to the factory where Manuel worked
The wide smile, the rain in your hair,
nothing mattered
you were going to meet with him,
with him, with him, with him
They were five minutes
life is eternal
in five minutes
The whistle blew
to return to work
and you walking you lit up everything
those five minutes
made you blossom
I remember you, Amanda
The wet street
running to the factory where Manuel worked
The wide smile, the rain in your hair,
nothing mattered
you were going to meet with him,
with him, with him, with him
And he took to the mountains to fight
He had never hurt a fly
and in five minutes
it was all wiped out
The whistle blew
to return to work
many didn't go back
neither did Manuel
I remember you, Amanda
The wet street
running to the factory where Manuel worked