What a pity!
That I can not sing in the style of this time
the same as today's poets sing!
Too bad I can not sing with a voice
pompous ballads
those bright to the glories of the fatherland!
Too bad I do not have a homeland!
I know the story is the same,
it always happens
from one land to another land,
from one race to another race,
as summer storms pass those
from this to that region.
Too bad I do not have region,
hometown, provincial land!
be born in the bowels of the English steppes.
And I was born in a town that I remember nothing:
blue days I spent my childhood in Salamanca,
And my youth, a dark youth, in the mountains.
Then ... and I have not anchoring
and none of these lands me up and exalts
me to sing the same tune always the same river
rolling passes the same waters,
the same sky, the same field and in the same house.
Too bad I do not have a house!
A manor house and emblazoned,
a house where keep,
over other weird things
old leather couch, a table
moth-eaten and a portrait of my grandfather
to win a battle.
Too bad I do not have a grandfather
to win a battle with one hand
portrayed cross on his chest,
and one hand on the hilt of the sword!
Too bad I did not even have a sword!
Because ... What am I going to sing
if I have no homeland,
or a provincial land, or a stately home
and emblazoned,
or a portrait of my grandfather
to win a battle,
or old leather couch,
or a table, or a sword?
I'll sing if I am
an outcast who just have a cape! However
... in this land of Spain
and in a village in the Alcarria
is a house where I am and where I have
inn, borrowed,
a pine table and a wicker chair.
A book I have too.
And all my trousseau in a room is very large and very white
is at the bottom
and cooler in the house. It has a very clear light
this room so vast and so white ...
a very clear light coming through a window
which gives a very wide street.
And in light of this window come every morning.
Here I sit on my wicker chair and I overcome
long hours reading my book and seeing how people spend
to the window.
minor things like a book and a glass window in a village
Alcarria
and yet, you just
to feel the whole rhythm of life to my soul.
That whole rhythm of the world for these crystals pass
the shepherd who goes behind the goat with a huge
Cudgel,
woman burdened with a load of firewood in the back,
those beggars who are dragging their miseries
Pastrana,
and that girl who goes to school so reluctantly.
Oh, that girl! Makes a stop at my window always stays
and the crystals
stuck like a stamp.
What grace has his face smashed into the glass with his chin sunk
and flat little nose! I laugh a lot
looking
and say it's a pretty girl ...
She then called me stupid!, And leaves.
Poor girl! Does not pass through this street as wide
walking to school reluctantly
not stand on my window,
or stay glued to the glass as if
out a stamp.
That one day was bad, very bad, and another day
doubled by it the death knell.
And in a clear morning, this street as wide,
to the window, I saw the
had a very white box ... In a very white box
having a crystallite at the top.
For this crystal face
saw the same thing when I was
Pegaditas to my window pane ...
The glass of this window now
always reminds me that the crystallite as white box.
whole pace of life is this
my window pane ... And death
also happens ...
What a pity!
That I can not sing other feats,
because I have a homeland, a land
or provincial,
or stately home, and emblazoned,
or a portrait of my grandfather
to win a battle,
or old leather couch ,
or a table, or a sword,
and I am an outcast who just have a layer ...
be constrained to sing small things!
León Felipe
Recited by Rafael Alberti
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