Village Winds carry me, drag me winds of the people, spread me Scatter me heart and throat.
The ox bow their heads, gentle helplessly in front of punishment: the lions get up and at the same time punish with their clamorous paw.
I'm not a race of oxen, I am from a village to the mines of lions, eagles and mountain passes of bulls with pride on the pole. Oxen never prospered in the mountains of Spain.
Who said anything about throwing a yoke on the neck of this breed? Who put the hurricane never or yokes or hindrance, or who kept a lightning bolt prisoner in a cage? Asturian
of bravery, armored stone Basque, Valencian and Castilian joy of soul, worked as land and graceful as the wings of lightning Andalusian born between guitars and forged on the anvil torrential tears rye Extremadura, Galicia of rain and calm, firm Catalan, Aragonese, caste, fruit spread dynamite Murcia, León, Navarre, owner of hunger, sweat and ax,
mining kings, lords of the farm, men between the roots, as elegant roots, going from life to death, going from nothing to nothing: yokes I want to put people in the weeds, you must leave yokes on their backs broken. Twilight
the horse is emerging dawn. Oxen die
humbly dressed and smell of block and the eagles, lions and bulls of arrogance, and behind them the sky or clouds or over. The agony of the horse has small face, the male animal of all creation enlarged.
If I die, I die with my head held high. Killed and twenty times dead, mouth against the grass, I tightened the teeth and determined chin. Singing
wait for death, there are nightingales that sing above the guns and in the midst of battle.
Miguel Hernández
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