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Lautanen Guatemalan verta

Kaj Chydenius
Language: Finnish

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The lyrics of this song are an adaptation of Almería, a poem by Pablo Neruda, from España en el corazón.

Testo / Lyrics / Paroles / Sanat: Pentti Saaritsa
Ateria piispalle, katkera hakkelus,
annos romurautaa, tuhkaa, kyyneleitä,
lautanen Guatemalan verta.

Ateria pankkiirille, etelän lasten poskipäitä,
annos räjähdyksiä, raunioita, kauhua,
lautanen Guatemalan verta.

Ateria everstille ja everstin rouvalle,
varuskunnan juhlissa, kaikissa juhlissa,
lautanen Guatemalan verta.

Niin, ateria kaikille teille rikkaat läheltä ja kaukaa,
lähettiläät, ministerit, kammottavat pöytäkumppanit,
mukavaa teetä juovat naiset mukavisssa tuoleissa:
sotkuinen läikehtivä annos likaista köyhää verta,
joka ainoa aamu, joka ainoa viikko, aina ja aina,
lautanen Guatemalan verta edessänne aina.

Joka ainoa aamu, joka ainoa viikko, aina ja aina,
lautanen Guatemalan verta edessänne aina.

Joka ainoa aamu, joka ainoa viikko, aina ja aina,
lautanen Guatemalan verta edessänne aina.

Contributed by Juha Rämö - 2017/10/31 - 12:27




Language: English

Traduzione inglese / English translation / Traduction anglaise / Englanninkielinen käännös: Juha Rämö
A PLATE OF GUATEMALA'S BLOOD

A meal for the Bishop, a bitter hash,
a plate of iron debris, ashes, tears,
a plate of Guatemala's blood.

A meal for the banker, cheekbones of children from the South,
a plate of expolsions, ruins, horror,
a plate of Guatemala's blood.

A meal for the Colonel and his wife,
at the garrison feast, at every feast,
a plate of Guatemala's blood.

Yes, a meal for all of you rich ones from near and far,
ambassadors, ministers, despicable dinner guests,
ladies having your nice cup of tea in your comfortable chairs:
a messy overflowing plate of filthy blood of the poor,
each and every morning, each and every week, forever,
a plate of Guatemala's blood in front of you forever.

Each and every morning, each and every week, forever,
a plate of Guatemala's blood in front of you forever.

Each and every morning, each and every week, forever,
a plate of Guatemala's blood in front of you forever.

Contributed by Juha Rämö - 2017/10/31 - 12:29




Language: Spanish

La poesia di Pablo Neruda / The Poem by Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda
ALMERÍA

Un plato para el obispo, un plato triturado y amargo,
un plato con restos de hierro, con cenizas, con lágrimas,
un plato sumergido, con sollozos y paredes caídas,
un plato para el obispo, un plato de sangre de Almería.

Un plato para el banquero, un plato con mejillas
de niños del Sur feliz, un plato
con detonaciones, con aguas locas y ruinas y espanto,
un plato con ejes partidos y cabezas pisadas,
un plato negro, un plato de sangre de Almería.

Cada mañana, cada mañana turbia de vuestra vida
lo tendréis humeante y ardiente en vuestra mesa:
lo apartaréis un poco con vuestras suaves manos
para no verlo, para no digerirlo tantas veces:
lo apartaréis un poco entre el pan y las uvas,
a este plato de sangre silenciosa
que estará allí cada mañana, cada mañana.

Un plato para el Coronel y la esposa del Coronel,
en una fiesta de la guarnición, en cada fiesta,
sobre los juramentos y los escupos, con la luz de vino de la madrugada
para que lo veáis temblando y frío sobre el mundo.

Sí, un plato para todos vosotros, ricos de aquí y de allá,
embajadores, ministros, comensales atroces,
señoras de confortable té y asiento:
un plato destrozado, desbordado, sucio de sangre pobre,
para cada mañana, para cada semana, para siempre jamás,
un plato de sangre de Almería, ante vosotros, siempre.

Contributed by Juha Rämö - 2017/10/31 - 12:31




Language: English

Traduzione inglese della poesia di Pablo Neruda / English translation of Pablo Neruda's poem / Traduction anglaise du poème de Pablo Neruda: Michael Rossman
ALMERÍA

A plate for the Bishop, a plate chewed and bitter,
A plate of steel scraps, of ashes and tears,
A plate brimming over with fallen walls and sobs,
A plate for the Bishop, a plate of Almería's blood.

A plate for the banker, a plate of cheeks
of children from the happy South, a plate
of explosions, mad waters, of ruins and terror,
a plate of broken ankles and trampled heads.

Each morning, each murky morning of your life,
you'll have it steaming and hot on your table:
you'll push it back a bit with your soft soft hands
so as not to see it, not to eat it so often;
you'll push it back a bit between the bread
and the grapes, this plate of silent blood
that will be there each morning, every morning.

A plate for the Colonel and the Colonel's wife,
at a garrison party, at every party,
over curses and spit, with the dawn's light of wine,
so you'll look out over the world, trembling and cold.

Yes, a plate for you all, rich ones everywhere,
ambassadors, ministers, atrocious dinner-guests,
ladies with comfortable tea and bottoms:
a plate destroyed, overflowing, filthy with the blood of the poor,
each morning, each week, forever and ever,
a plate of blood from Almería before you, forever.

Contributed by Juha Rämö - 2017/10/31 - 12:33



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