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We raided food from local people Even though it isn’t lawful And sometimes friars brought us bread And comforted us about the dead.
His grace the Conde de Valmaceda Swore to drown out that ‘Grito de Yara’ In a pool of blood and terror Filled by a hurricane of horror.
The battles were short bursts of action With all the sounds mixed in confusion, Most of our guns would hardly fire And canons got stuck in the mire.
I hate that man, the rebel Céspedes, The roving bands armed with machetes Who swarm from dense grass and attack When men are marching, they can hack
Off a limb quick as an eagle swoops They cut their way right through our troops Before a sword or gun were ready And vanished like an evil fairy.
I only once have loved a girl Her skin as rich as this dark soil A mulatta with a voice so mild Who I hope will bear my child.
Yet again there is more rain It washes over my sharp pain And carries my blood into the soil As I watch my life uncoil.
My arm’s already taken root, Cut off like so much rotten fruit And soon I too will be planted Like the seeds of my blood
Santiago |
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Remembrances of a Spanish Soldier—2 |
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17 |
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All work within this periodical is copyrighted by the authors and Big Pond Rumour, January 2008. No part is to be copied or reproduced without the written consent of the authors and Big Pond Rumour Press. |