Poeżija u Informazzjoni - Poetry & Information
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  • Spanja (Spain)

    Posted on March 29th, 2009 Admin No comments

    O Spanja, Spanja kemm jinżilli mieles
    f’qalbi dak ismek ħlejju.
    Navarra, Katalonja u Aragona,
    Kastilja, Andalusija.
    Il-warda ħamra
    li tikbes fuq il-qċaċet tan-Nevada
    li tfewwaġ fl-Alkazar u ġol-Alambra
    fiha fwiħat id-dmija.
    Żonqor is-Sjerra
    imnaqqax bil-lelaċ tad-dellijiet
    jolfoq mill-pori l-għaraq tat-tbatija
    bħal ġgant muġugħ.
    Fuq kollox, fuq kulħadd
    tidħak ix-xemx bħal wiċċ ta’ ljun ħamrani.
    Ja Spanja art tan-nora
    fejn l-aħmar jgħajjat fis-satin lelliexi
    tal-mant tat-toreador,
    fid-dbielet tax-xbejbiet jiżfnu l-fandango,
    f’ċapep id-demm magħqud fuq dahar l-istatwi
    ta’ Kristu Redentur.
    Inħobbok Spanja għax bħali int tħobb il-ħajja,
    l-imħabba u l-mibegħda,
    l-uġigħ, id-demm u l-għaraq,
    ir-ritmu mfisser fit-tektika għaġġiela
    tal-kastanjoli.

    Għannejthom tul iż-żminijiet
    f’dawk l-iġsma roża ta’ Francisco Goya,
    fid-daqq tal-Macarena ġewwa l- Plaza,
    f’għanjiet Lope de Vega, f’għanjiet Lorca,
    fis-seba’ sjuf ġo qalb l-Addolorata,
    f’kull qatra demm ħamrani
    li ġġelben sħuna fuq ir-ramel jaħraq
    fl-arena mriegħda bl-għagħa t’Ole’ Ole’…

    Spain, O Spain.
    How mellow sounds your name in my ears.
    Navarre, Catalonia, Aragon,
    Castille, Andalusia.
    The red, red rose
    which kindles the peaks of the Nevada,
    which scents the Alcazar and the Alhambra
    smells of blood.
    The granite of the Sierra
    chiselled by purple shadows
    oozes through its pores the sweat of exertion
    like a wounded giant.
    High up above everything
    the sun beams with laughter like an auburn faced lion.
    Thou Spain, land of scarlet,
    where red glares in the strident satins
    of the torero’s mantle..
    in the skirt of the fandango dancers..
    in the masses of coagulated blood
    on the back of the statues of Christ the Redeemer..
    I love you Spain: Like me thou lovest life,
    love and hate,
    pain, blood and sweat,
    rhythm expressed in the fast clatter
    of the castanets.

    Throughout the ages did’st thou sing all this
    in the roseate nudes of Francisco Goya,
    in the Macarena played in the plaza,
    in the songs of Lope de Vega and Garcia Lorca
    in the seven daggers in the heart of the Pietaċ,
    in every single drop of blood
    that trickles on the scorching sand of the arena
    resounding with the roar of Ole’ Ole’..

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