Текст и перевод песни Joan Manuel Serrat - Mo
Blanca
de
calç,
mirant
al
nord,
sol
matitiner
li
encén
el
rostre
i
Mô
s'enfila
des
del
port
pels
antics
camins
de
ses
costes.
Vaixell
varat
en
l'arenal
que
llepa
el
mar
de
retirada.
Amagatall
de
vents
furtius.
Refugi
de
veles
cansades.
Plora
la
sinia
en
el
verger
a
l'abric
de
la
tramuntana
i
la
vila
humil
de
carrers
lleus
murmura
històries
quotidianes
d'herois
petits
i
glòries
breus
cercant
el
pa
de
cada
dia,
que
fan
glosats
amb
pastissets
i
gestes
de
bijuteria.
Mô...
Amb
precs
i
plors
i
de
genolls
passa
l'hivern
de
mica
en
mica.
Encén
el
foc
i
el
guinavet
amb
sang
de
porc
es
purifica.
Sota
el
mestral
salat
i
fred
recargolat
s'ajup
l'uastre
i
pel
camí
que
du
a
ponent
el
sol
frissa
per
amagar-se.
Però
el
temps
obscur,
ocell
vençut,
emigra
quan
des
de
la
Mola
llenega
càlid
cap
al
port
un
perfum
dolç
de
farigola.
Amolla
el
fred,
es
treu
el
dol,
busca
el
camí
que
du
a
l'arena
i
per
la
nit
plouen
cançons
de
mariners
i
de
sirenes.
Mô...
Cap
es
fosquet,
a
beure
al
mar,
morta
de
set
baixa
la
mata
i
el
talaiot
s'enfila
al
cel
per
si
tornessin
els
pirates.
Farcits
de
peix
tornen
els
bous
que
empaiten
núvols
de
gavines
i
la
ciutat,
en
el
mirall
de
l'aigua,
tèrbola
es
pentina.
Bota
un
cavall,
toca
un
fabiol
i
un
crit
antic
de
gin
i
festa
s'escampa
per
l'illa
com
foc
des
de
l'oest
com
una
pesta
i
quan
la
tardor
faci
sonar
els
tambors
fèrtils
de
la
pluja,
mesquineta,
s'ensopirà
amb
contes
de
fades
i
de
bruixes.
Mô...
White
with
lime,
facing
north,
the
early
sun
lights
up
her
face
and
Mo
climbs
from
the
port
along
the
ancient
paths
of
her
coasts.
A
boat
beached
on
the
sand
that
the
retreating
sea
licks.
A
hiding
place
for
furtive
winds.
A
refuge
for
tired
sails.
The
bride
cries
in
the
orchard
sheltered
from
the
tramontana
wind
and
the
humble
town
with
its
smooth
streets
murmurs
everyday
stories
of
small
heroes
and
brief
glories
seeking
their
daily
bread,
which
they
make
glosats
¹ with
pastissets
² and
feats
of
costume
jewelry.
Mo...
With
pleas
and
tears
and
on
her
knees,
winter
passes
little
by
little.
She
lights
the
fire
and
the
knife
is
purified
with
pig's
blood.
Under
the
salty
and
cold,
twisted
mistral,
the
wild
olive
tree
huddles
and
along
the
path
that
leads
to
the
west,
the
sun
longs
to
hide.
But
the
dark
time,
a
defeated
bird,
emigrates
when
from
the
Mola
a
sweet
scent
of
thyme
slides
warm
towards
the
port.
She
shakes
off
the
cold,
takes
off
her
mourning
clothes,
seeks
the
path
that
leads
to
the
sand
and
at
night
songs
of
sailors
and
sirens
rain
down.
Mo...
Towards
dusk,
to
drink
the
sea,
the
thirsty
bush
descends
and
the
talayot
climbs
towards
the
sky
in
case
the
pirates
return.
Pregnant
with
fish,
the
boats
return,
chasing
clouds
of
seagulls,
and
the
city,
in
the
mirror
of
the
water,
combs
her
hair
in
a
daze.
A
horse
kicks,
a
flute
plays,
and
an
ancient
cry
of
gin
and
celebration
spreads
through
the
island
like
fire
from
the
west
like
the
plague,
and
when
autumn
makes
the
fertile
drums
of
rain
sound,
unhappy,
she
will
fall
asleep
with
tales
of
fairies
and
witches.
Mo...
MÔ
(MAHÓN)
MO
(MAHÓN)
Blanca
de
cal,
mirando
al
norte,
sol
madrugador
le
enciende
el
rostro
y
Mô
se
encarama
desde
el
puerto
por
los
antiguos
caminos
de
sus
costas.
Barco
varado
en
el
arenal
que
lame
el
mar
de
retirada.
Escondrijo
de
vientos
furtivos.
Refugio
de
velas
cansadas.
Llora
la
novia
en
el
huerto
al
abrigo
de
la
tramontana
y
la
villa
humilde
de
calles
leves
murmura
historias
cotidianas
de
héroes
pequeños
y
glorias
breves
buscando
el
pan
de
cada
día,
que
hacen
glosats
¹ con
pastissets
² y
gestas
de
bisutería.
Mô...
Con
ruegos
y
llantos
y
de
rodillas
pasa
el
invierno
poco
a
poco.
Enciende
el
fuego
y
el
cuchillo
con
sangre
de
cerdo
se
purifica.
Bajo
el
mistral
salado
y
frío
retorcido
se
acurruca
el
acebuche
y
por
el
camino
que
lleva
a
poniente
el
sol
ansías
esconderse.
Pero
el
tiempo
oscuro,
pájaro
vencido,
emigra
cuando
desde
la
Mola
se
desliza
cálido
hacia
el
puerto
un
perfume
dulce
de
tomillo.
Se
sacude
el
frío,
se
quita
el
luto,
busca
el
camino
que
lleva
a
la
arena
y
por
la
noche
llueven
canciones
de
marineros
y
de
sirenas.
Mô...
Hacia
el
anochecer,
a
beber
el
mar,
muerta
de
sed
baja
la
mata
y
el
talayote
trepa
hacia
el
cielo
por
si
vuelven
los
piratas.
Preñados
de
pescado
regresan
los
barcos
que
persiguen
nubes
de
gaviotas
y
la
ciudad,
en
el
espejo
del
agua,
turbia
se
peina.
Bota
³ un
caballo,
suena
el
flautín
y
un
grito
antiguo
de
gin
y
fiesta
se
extiende
por
la
isla
como
fuego
desde
el
oeste
como
la
peste
y
cuando
el
otoño
haga
sonar
los
tambores
fértiles
de
la
lluvia,
infeliz,
se
aletargará
con
cuentos
de
hadas
y
de
brujas.
Mô...
White
with
lime,
looking
north,
the
early
rising
sun
lights
up
her
face
and
Mo
climbs
up
from
the
port
along
the
ancient
paths
of
her
coasts.
A
boat
beached
on
the
sand
that
the
receding
sea
laps.
A
hiding
place
for
furtive
winds.
A
refuge
for
weary
sails.
The
bride
weeps
in
the
orchard
sheltered
from
the
tramontana
wind
and
the
humble
town
with
its
smooth
streets
murmurs
everyday
stories
of
small
heroes
and
brief
glories
seeking
their
daily
bread,
which
they
make
glosats
¹ with
pastissets
² and
feats
of
costume
jewelry.
Mo...
With
pleas
and
tears
and
on
her
knees,
winter
passes
little
by
little.
She
lights
the
fire
and
the
knife
is
purified
with
pig's
blood.
Under
the
salty
and
cold,
twisted
mistral,
the
wild
olive
tree
huddles
and
along
the
path
that
leads
to
the
west,
the
sun
yearns
to
hide.
But
the
dark
time,
a
defeated
bird,
emigrates
when
from
the
Mola
a
sweet
scent
of
thyme
glides
warm
towards
the
port.
She
shakes
off
the
cold,
takes
off
her
mourning
clothes,
seeks
the
path
that
leads
to
the
sand
and
at
night
songs
of
sailors
and
sirens
rain
down.
Mo...
Towards
nightfall,
to
drink
the
sea,
the
thirsty
bush
descends
and
the
talayot
climbs
towards
the
sky
in
case
the
pirates
return.
Pregnant
with
fish,
the
boats
return,
chasing
clouds
of
seagulls,
and
the
city,
in
the
mirror
of
the
water,
combs
her
hair
in
a
daze.
A
horse
kicks,
a
flute
plays,
and
an
ancient
cry
of
gin
and
celebration
spreads
through
the
island
like
fire
from
the
west
like
the
plague,
and
when
autumn
makes
the
fertile
drums
of
rain
sound,
unhappy,
she
will
fall
asleep
with
tales
of
fairies
and
witches.
Mo...
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