It Is Snowing in the Night

Neither to hear voices from the world beyond
nor strive to bring into my verses the “unfathomable”
nor search for the rhyme with the care of a jeweler,
no beautiful words, profound discourse
                      Thank God
                                  I am above
                                            well above this tonight.

Tonight
I am a street singer, there is no talent in my voice;
my voice is singing for you a song you will not hear.

It is snowing in the night,
You are at the door of Madrid.
In front of you an army
           killing the most beautiful things we own,
                      hope, yearning, freedom and children,
                                              The City. . . .

It is snowing
And perhaps tonight
your wet feet are cold.
It is snowing
And while I am thinking about you
a bullet might be hitting you right now;
then for you no more
            snow, wind, day or night. . . .

It is snowing.
Before you stood at the door of Madrid
            saying “no pasaran”
            you must have been living somewhere.

Who knows
Perhaps
you came from the coal mines of the Asturias
Perhaps around your head a bloody bandage
hides a wound you got in the North.
 And perhaps you were the one who fired the last shot in the suburbs
while the “Junkers” were burning Bilbao.
Or perhaps you were a hired hand
on the farm of some Count Fernando Valeskeras de Cordoban
Perhaps you had a small shop on the “Plaza del Sol”
you sold colorful Spanish fruits.
Perhaps you had no craft, perhaps you had a beautiful voice.
Perhaps you were a student of philosophy or law
and your books were crushed by the wheels of an Italian tank
on the campus of your Universty.
Perhaps you did not believe in heaven
and perhaps you have on your chest
a little cross hanging on a string.

Who are you, what is your name, when were you born?
I have never seen, I will never see your face.
Who knows
Perhaps it looks like the faces
of those who beat Kolchak in Siberia;
Perhaps it looks like the face
of someone who lies on the battlefield of Dumlupinar*
you might even look something like Robespierre.

I have never seen, I will never see your face,
you have never heard, you will never hear my name.
There are between us seas and mountains,
                       my cursed helplessness,
and the “Committee of Non-Intervention”
I cannot come to you
I cannot even send you
                      a case of cartridges 
                                  fresh eggs
                                              or o pair of woolen socks.

And yet I know,
in this cold snowy weather
your wet feet guarding the door of Madrid
are cold like two naked children.
I know,
everything great and beautiful there is,
everything great and beautiful man has still to create
that is, everything my nostalgic soul hopes for
Smiles in the eyes
            of the sentry at the door of Madrid.
And tomorrow, like yesterday, like tonight
I can do nothing else but love him
                                                                        1937, Tr. by Ali Yunus