Old servants of my infancy pressing wine and fishing
with the doors of the bodegas rushing wide to the beach,
my fastest friends,
grinning faithful dogs,
gifted gardeners,
coachmen,
poor steersmen at port,
tired marching from today to the hour
to lift your feet anew into a new era of the world,
I deliver my greetings
and call you comrades.
Come with me, 
rise,
ancient and first guardians, the disappeared.
You hear not the voice of my grandfather,
nor the authority, nor the dominion.
Do you remember me?
Tell me.
Older now, much older now.
I am witness to thirty years of your servitude.
This is my voice. 
Yes.
Mine,
the one who calls to you.
Come.

And not to nag you to feed and water my canaries,
goldfinches, or budgies; 
not to rail at you that my prized stallion’s hooves are destroyed 
or that I’m telling my parents you neglected to pick me up 
at school in the afternoon.
Not anymore.

Come with me brothers.
Let us open,
open all the doors leading to the gardens,
to the rooms you swept, afraid to disturb my mother’s porcelain,
to a barrel of wine you personally pressed,
stepping back to the lost orchard gates,
where dark horses are stabled to change your fortune.
All is open, all is open, sit yourselves down.
Rest.

Good morning!
Your very children,
your blood,
have made at last a ringing bell this hour that the world
will change owners.

Author:  Rafael Alberti
Translator: Manny Grimaldi