Текст и перевод песни Joan Manuel Serrat - Manuel

Manuel

Le llamaban Manuel, nació en España,
Su casa era de barro, de barro y caña.
Las tierras del señor humedecían
Su sudor y su llanto, día tras día.
Mendigo a jornal fijo como él no hubo
Entre olivos y trigos, por un mendrugo.
Su casa era de barro, de barro y caña,
Le llamaban Manuel, nació en España.
Le llamaban Manuel, nació en España,
Su mundo era otro mundo, tras la montaña.
Del amo eran las tierras, camino abajo
Las moras y las flores de los ribazos.
La mula y los arreos, el pan y el vino,
Los árboles, las piedras y los caminos.
Su mundo era otro mundo, tras la montaña,
Le llamaban Manuel, nació en España.
Le llamaban Manuel, nació en España,
Ella guardaba un hijo en sus entrañas.
Nunca nada fue suyo, nada tuvieron,
Por eso lloró tanto cuando murieron.
Él con sus propias manos cavó una fosa
Sepultando sus sueños junto a su esposa.
Ella guardaba un hijo en sus entrañas,
Le llamaban Manuel, nació en España.
Le llamaban Manuel, nació en España,
Le vieron alejarse una mañana.
Del amo era el olivo, donde lo hallaron
Y la soga de esparto que desataron.
Y el pedazo de tierra donde hoy se pudre
Y el trigo que en la sierra su tumba cubre.
Le vieron alejarse una mañana.
Le llamaban Manuel, nació en España.

Manuel

They called him Manuel; he was born in Spain,
His house was made of clay, of clay and straw.
The lord's land was moistened by
His sweat and his tears, day after day.
There was no beggar as steadfast as he
Amongst the olive trees and wheat for a crust of bread.
His house was made of clay, of clay and straw,
They called him Manuel; he was born in Spain.
They called him Manuel; he was born in Spain,
His world was another world, behind the mountain.
The master owned the land, down below
The blackberries and the flowers of the banks.
The mule and the harness, the bread and the wine,
The trees, the stones and the roads.
His world was another world, behind the mountain,
They called him Manuel; he was born in Spain.
They called him Manuel, he was born in Spain,
She was carrying a child in her womb.
Nothing was ever his, they had nothing,
That is why he cried so much when they died.
With his own hands, he dug a grave,
Burying his dreams together with his wife.
She was carrying a child in her womb,
They called him Manuel; he was born in Spain.
They called him Manuel; he was born in Spain,
They saw him go away one morning.
The olive tree belonged to the master, where they found him
And the esparto rope that they untied.
And the piece of land where today he rots,
And the wheat that covers his grave in the mountains.
They saw him go away one morning,
They called him Manuel; he was born in Spain.