The silence of Portugal

The journey

  

“I ask to the passing wind

 For news of my country

And the wind silences the disaster

The wind tells me nothing.

 

I ask to the rivers that take

So much dream at the flower of waters

And the rivers do not rest me

Take dreams, leave grieves.

 

Take dreams, leave grieves

Oh, rivers of my country

My native land at the flower of waters

Where does it go? Nobody says.

(…)  

I ask to the passing people

Why they go with their eyes in the soil.

Silence – it is everything that has

Who lives in the servitude.

 

I saw blooming the green branches

Right branches straight to the sky.

And to who likes to always have masters,

I saw the shoulders bending.

 

 And the wind says nothing

Nobody tells me nothing new.

I saw my native land nailed

To the arms in cross of the people.

 

I saw my native land in the edge

Of rivers that go to the sea

As somebody who loves the journey

But has always to stay.

 

I saw the ships leaving

(my native land to the flower of waters)

 I saw my native land blooming

(green leaves, green grieves).

 

There is who wants it ignored

And tells you “native land” in your name.

I saw you crucified

In the dark arms of Hunger.

 

And the wind says nothing

Only, to me, silence persists.

I saw my native land detained

By the side of a sad river.

 

Nobody says nothing of new

 If news I go asking for

In the empty hands of people

I saw my native land blooming.

 

And the night grows within

The men of my country.

I ask for news to the wind

And the wind tells me nothing.

 

Four leaves has the clover

Freedom has four syllables.

Don’t know how to read, it’s true,

Those to whom I write.

 

But there is always a candle

Within the own disaster

There is always somebody

Who sows songs in the passing wind.

 

Even in the saddest night

In time of servitude

There is always somebody who resists

There is always somebody who says “No!”

 

(Manuel Alegre)