Текст и перевод песни Ismael Serrano - Al Bando Vencido

Al Bando Vencido

Se van llevando la memoria,
Queda en la historia una mancha, un borrón.
Mientras el resto sufre amnesia,
Un viejo recuerda una canción,

De aquella lejana batalla
Donde pudo morir,
En una guerra no ganada,
A veces me pregunta por ti.

Se cree aún en la trinchera,
Otra bandera, de otro color,
Solemne en su viento ondea,
Sobre la cima y en su salón.

A veces habla con fantasmas
De cuyo nombre se olvidó.
Vencidos, nunca regresaron
De su exilio interior.

Ni un momento, ni un recuerdo,
Para los que perdieron, los que construyeron
La tumba, el mausoleo,
De la miseria, del carnicero.

¿Cómo esperas ganar sin ellos
Las batallas que anteriormente perdieron?
Si han de callar, que callen aquellos,
Los que firmaron pactos de silencio.

Tratan de convencerle, abuelo,
Las explosiones han terminado.
Pero cuando sale a la calle,
Madrid parece bombardeado.

Y lee escritos en los muros,
Gritos contra los que luchó,
Y personajes de rostro oscuro
Que le inculcaron el terror.

Y un día, sin darnos cuenta,
El viejo, con sus historias, se consumió
Y en la memoria de su nieto
Sólo una huella, un leve borrón,

De aquella lejana batalla,
Donde pudo morir,
En una guerra no ganada
Donde luchó por ti.

Donde luchó por ti.

To the Defeated Side

They are taking away the memory,
There remains in history a stain, a blot.
While the rest suffer amnesia,
An old man remembers a song,

From that distant battle
Where he could have died,
In a war not won,
Sometimes he asks me about you.

He still believes in the trenches,
Another flag, of another colour,
Waves solemnly in his wind,
On the summit and in his living room.

Sometimes he talks to ghosts
Whose names he has forgotten.
Defeated, they never returned
From their internal exile.

Not a moment, not a memory,
For those who lost, those who built
The tomb, the mausoleum,
Of misery, of the butcher.

How do you expect to win without them
The battles that they previously lost?
If they are to be silent, let those be silent,
Those who signed pacts of silence.

They try to convince you, grandfather,
The explosions have ended.
But when he goes out into the street,
Madrid seems bombarded.

And he reads writings on the walls,
Screams against those he fought against,
And characters with dark faces
Who instilled terror in him.

And one day, without realizing it,
The old man, with his stories, was consumed
And in the memory of his grandson
Only a trace, a slight blot,

Of that distant battle,
Where he could have died,
In a war not won
Where he fought for you.

Where he fought for you.