There is
A country in the world
located
In the same way the
sun,
A native of the night,
located
In an improbable archipelago
of Sugar and rum
simply
light,
As a bat's wing
Supported in the breeze.
Simply,
Clear,
As the trail of kiss
on the singles
antiques
Or the day
on the roof.
Simply
Fruit, fluvial and material. Yet
Simply hot and
kicked
as a teenager in the hips
simply sad and oppressed.
Sincerely wild and uninhabited.
Indeed.
With three million
Sum of life
And among all
Four
cardinal ridges
And a huge bay and
another huge bay,
Three peninsulas adjacent
islands
And a wonder of vertical
rivers
And land under
trees and land
Under the rivers and the foothills of Mount
and at the foot of the hill and beyond the horizon
and earth from the
roosters cantío1
and earth under the
gallop of horses
and land on the day,
under the map around
and under all the
tracks and through love.
Then
This
is what I said.
There is
A country in the world
just wild and uninhabited.
Some love will believe
that in this fluvial country where the
land rises,
And it pours and
cracks like a broken vein,
Where the day has its true triumph,
The farmers will go with amazement and apero2
to cultivate.
Singing
their own fringe.
This love
Will break his solitary innocence
But no.
And will believe
That in the middle of this rise land,
Everywhere, where rolling hills in the valleys
As fresh blue
coins, sleeping in
A forest in each flower and each flower, life
The farmers will walk for the hill
sleeping
To enjoy
struggling
With its own goods.
This love
Double its light arrow.
But no.
And will believe
That where the wind assails the innermost clod
And become them summits troops and grasslands,
where each tor looks like a heart,
In every farmer will
go the spring
singing
between the rows
their property
This love
Reach its flowering age.
But
no.
There is
A country in the world
Where a farmer brief
Dry and bitter
dies
and bites
barefoot
Its
powder demolished,
And the land is not enough for its row death.
Hear it well! Not
enough to fall asleep.
It is a small country and attacked, just sad
Sad and grim, sad and acrid. As I already said:
Just sad and depressed.
Is not that only.
Men are needed
For so much land. That is, are missing men
who undress the
Virgin Mountains and make them
mothers
After a few songs.
Mother of the vegetable
Mother of bread, Mother of the canvas and the roof
request Mother and night by the bed ...
Men are needed to kneel down the trees and then
rise them against the sun and distance.
Against gravity´s the laws.
And I take from them rest,
rebellion and clarity.
And men who lie with clay
And left them calving walls.
And men
To decipher the river´s
gods
And upload them trembling between the
networks.
And men on the coasts and in the cold
gorges
And in all desolation.
That is, missing men.
and
need a song.
From the depths of the night
I come to speak of a country.
Precisely
Poor of population.
but
Is not that only.
Nature of the night I'm the product of a trip.
Give me time
courage
to make the song.
Lung Nest down at
the moon
Golden Health open
guitar
End of the journey where an island
the peasants have no land.
Tell the wind surnames
Of the thieves and
caves
And open your eyes where a disaster
The peasants have no land
The sharp air a brief fist
Is stopped by a stone
Open an injury where the eyes
The peasants have no land.
Those who do not have
angels stole
They have orbits between
the legs
They don´t have sex where one homeland
The peasants have no land.
They have no peace between the eyelashes
Landless they have no land.
Unlikely country.
Where the land
springs
And it pours and cracks like a broken vein,
Where it reaches the statue of vertigo,
Where the birds swim or fly but in the middle
There is no more than earth:
The peasants
have no land.
And then
Where did that
song come out?
How is this possible?
Who says that
between the thin
Gold Health
the peasants have no
land?
That's another song. Listen
the delicious song of sugar mills
And rum.
Look at a sudden rush of rail
are of the sugar mill
Holders of the aborigine green
are of the sugar mill
And the native mountains
are of the sugar mill
And the grass and cane and wicker
are of the sugar mill
And the path and its two scars
are of the sugar mill
And small towns and virgins
are of the sugar mill
And the simple man's arms
are of the sugar mill
And his young veins caliber
are of the sugar mill
And guards with guns voice
are of the sugar mill
And the lead spot in the groins
are of the sugar mill
And the anger and hate without limit
are of the sugar mill
And the laws are sad and silent
are of the sugar mill
And the blame is not redeemed
are of the sugar mill
Twenty times I say it and I said
are of the sugar mill
"Our fields of glory repeat"
are of the sugar mill
In the shadow of the anchor
persist
are of the sugar mill
Although shed the burden of crime
Far from the port
With the blood, the sweat and salt
are of the sugar mill.
And this is the result.
The bright day
Returning through the glass
of Sugar, first meet the farmer.
Then to wood worker and the chopper
of cane.
Surrounded by his children filling the roads.
And the child of guarapo3 and then the serene old
with the clock, watching him with his secret death
and the young girl sewing early its eyelids
in the sack hundred thousand, and the trail of salary
Lost among the leaves of the timekeeper. And to sweaty profile
of the chargers wrapped in their dark muscle´s cloaks.
And the celestial mason
Placing in the sky the last brick
of the fireplace. And to the gray carpenter
jabbing the coffin for the immediate death
When the whistle blows, white and definitive,
that the rest contains.
The bright day wakes up in the back
Suddenly, running between the rails
Climb up the crane, falls into the stores.
In the yards at the foot of a laundress,
Wet in the songs, crackle and rejuvenates.
On the streets complaining in the proclamation. Just
their foot stands out tears the cribs.
Walk around the cities full of
lawyers
they are just signatures
and silence, to the poets
they are nothing but fog and silence and
judges
Silent. Climb, jump, delirious at the corners
And the bright day is solved by an imminent dollar.
One dollar! Here is the result. A gush of blood.
Silent, strict. Blood wound in the wind.
Blood in the effective product of bitterness.
This country is a country that Doesn´t
deserves the name of the country.
But grave, coffin,
or burial hole.
It is true that I kiss it and it kiss me
And that your kiss
will not taste more than blood.
What day will come, hidden in the
hope
With her basket full of implacable wrath
And made faces
and fists and knives.
But be careful not
fair that the punishment
Fall on everyone. Let's find the culprits.
And then drop the infinite weight of the people
upon the shoulders of the guilty.
And so
Pallor
of the moon
passengers’
uninhabited and wild dew,
goes mountains and
valleys along the river
Way of the foreign ports.
It is true that the river´s traffic.
Honey ridges, gorges
of sugar and crystal sailors
Will enjoy a
metallic whim,
And at the foot of the cooperative effort
the proletarian instinct appears.
But drunk with oregano
and anise
and martyr of hot
landscapes
There's a man standing in the gears.
Banished in his land. And a country
In the world,
fragrant
located
In the same way of
war.
Land speculators and landless.
Material. Morning. And banished.
And cannot be like that.
From soil
will procedure a
light whisper
probably hoarse and shed.
Probably in pursuit
of the land.
 |
| artist: Candido Bidó |
Pierce the fields and the
celestial
domain from east to
west
thrilling the last
root.
And taking off the heroes from the grave
there will be blood back into the
country.
there will be blood back into the
country.
And this is my last word.
I want it
hear it. I want to see on each door
of religion, where open hands
request a miracle of the estuary.
I want to see the
bitterness necessary
where man and the beef and the furrow sleep
and dreams get thin in the germ
of quiet that perpetuates the praying.
Where an angel breathe.
where burns
a pale and secret prayer
and following the road lane
a herdsman is extinguished in the afternoon.
After
I do not want more than peace
a nest
of constructive peace in each palm.
And perhaps to the purpose of soul
The swarm of kisses
And oblivion.
"Seeing this country so I exploded and kicked in desperation,
I wrote
'There's A Country in the World,"
Pedro Mir,
(published Cuba,
1949).
Translation: Nicole García.
3. Guarapo: juice of sugar cane, typically
made in The Dominican Republic.
2. Apero: instrument used on farming.
1. Cantío: singing of a rooster.
