What do Andalusian poets sing today?
In what salted grove of olive trees do they search? 
What do Andalusian poets feel today?

They sing with men’s voices, but where are the men?
They seek with women’s eyes, but where the women?
They feel with flesh of men’s hearts, but where the men?

Hearing the flowers bud, they sing. But they are alone.
They keep watch. Know when they find, they are alone.
Felt sense of the lilies and the rosebuds. They are alone.

Is there no one left in fallow Andalusia?
Is there no one perhaps in the Andalusian mountains?
No one in the seas and fields of Andalusia? 

Is there another who tugs with vigor at the voice of the poet?
Who delves into the heart beyond the poet’s walls?
So much has died, there is not much else but the poet.

Sight your voice high, sound others’ ears valley round.
Look up, compadre, and drink each other’s sight as yours—
pupils spread wide, your brother’s bloody beat.

The poet is not deepest in his dark subfloor, locked.
His song ascends to the most profound when, 
taking to the air, it belongs to all of humanity.

 

Author: Rafael Alberti
Translator: Manny Grimaldi