He comenzado este canto
al oír con espanto un grito funesto.
La bestia cruel que detesto
fustiga la mente de un hombre inocente.
Él se refugia en el mundo
de su silencio violado,
mientras el golpe iracundo
deja su amor perforado.
Yo mismo he sido testigo
de esto que digo y puedo probarlo.
Se cansó de torturarlo
el mismo soldado que a mí me ha encerrado.
Bien se sabrá en este mundo
cuando el homicida ufano
nos diga en tono rotundo
“yo tengo limpias las manos”.
Publicarán en el diario
que este presidiario vive en la guerrilla.
Yo ayer lo vi en la “parrilla”,
sus manos atadas, sus piernas quemadas.
Lo matarán sin matarlo,
lo borrarán de este mundo.
Los tristes a sepultarlo,
los justos, odio profundo.
Aunque se duerma en la tierra
el cuerpo que entierra la garra lesiva,
ninguna lanza incisiva
va a herir el ideario de un ser libertario.
Se quedará en este mundo
iluminando el sendero.
Lo que pensó el moribundo
no se olvida, compañero.
Lo amargo de este momento
se volvió lamento en esta garganta.
La tristeza es una planta
que en todo hombre crece, hasta que florece.
Como florece este mundo
con el dolor del perdido,
con el batallar fecundo
por el desaparecido.
al oír con espanto un grito funesto.
La bestia cruel que detesto
fustiga la mente de un hombre inocente.
Él se refugia en el mundo
de su silencio violado,
mientras el golpe iracundo
deja su amor perforado.
Yo mismo he sido testigo
de esto que digo y puedo probarlo.
Se cansó de torturarlo
el mismo soldado que a mí me ha encerrado.
Bien se sabrá en este mundo
cuando el homicida ufano
nos diga en tono rotundo
“yo tengo limpias las manos”.
Publicarán en el diario
que este presidiario vive en la guerrilla.
Yo ayer lo vi en la “parrilla”,
sus manos atadas, sus piernas quemadas.
Lo matarán sin matarlo,
lo borrarán de este mundo.
Los tristes a sepultarlo,
los justos, odio profundo.
Aunque se duerma en la tierra
el cuerpo que entierra la garra lesiva,
ninguna lanza incisiva
va a herir el ideario de un ser libertario.
Se quedará en este mundo
iluminando el sendero.
Lo que pensó el moribundo
no se olvida, compañero.
Lo amargo de este momento
se volvió lamento en esta garganta.
La tristeza es una planta
que en todo hombre crece, hasta que florece.
Como florece este mundo
con el dolor del perdido,
con el batallar fecundo
por el desaparecido.
Contributed by Dq82 - 2017/11/7 - 22:01
Language: English
Traduzione inglese da cantoscautivos.org
Several of my friends and comrades disappeared after being arrested. The dictatorship denied knowledge of their whereabouts but I knew they were lying. Many of these people had been in prison with me in the dungeons of Villa Grimaldi. This song was sung in a cell of Valparaíso Jail with one comrade keeping watch next to the door in case a prison guard approached. Today, in addition to the other 26 songs that were born in prison, ‘Canción del desaparecido’ is included in my record Documento (1986) that I produced in Germany on the tenth anniversary of my exile.
Several of my friends and comrades disappeared after being arrested. The dictatorship denied knowledge of their whereabouts but I knew they were lying. Many of these people had been in prison with me in the dungeons of Villa Grimaldi. This song was sung in a cell of Valparaíso Jail with one comrade keeping watch next to the door in case a prison guard approached. Today, in addition to the other 26 songs that were born in prison, ‘Canción del desaparecido’ is included in my record Documento (1986) that I produced in Germany on the tenth anniversary of my exile.
SONG OF THE DISAPPEARED
I’ve begun this song
upon hearing, in fright, an ill-fated scream.
The cruel beast that I detest
lashes the mind of an innocent man.
He finds refuge in the world
of his violated silence
while the raging blow
perforates his love.
I myself have been a witness
of what I am talking about and I can prove it.
The same soldier who imprisoned me
had his fill of torturing him.
It will be plain for the world to see
when the killer smugly
tells us in self-assured tone
“my hands are clean”.
They’ll will publish in the paper
that this prisoner lives with the guerrilla.
Yesterday I saw him on the ‘grill’
his hands bound, his legs burned.
They will kill him without killing him
they will wipe him off this world.
The sad ones will bury him,
the just, will hate deeply.
Even if the body buried by dangerous claws
rests in the earth,
no piercing spear
will wound the ideals of the libertarian.
He will remain in this world
lighting up the path.
The thoughts of the dying man
will not be forgotten, comrade.
The bitterness of this moment
became a wail in this throat.
Sadness is a plant
that grows in every man until it blossoms.
So this world blossoms
with the pain of the lost ones,
with the fertile battles
for the disappeared.
I’ve begun this song
upon hearing, in fright, an ill-fated scream.
The cruel beast that I detest
lashes the mind of an innocent man.
He finds refuge in the world
of his violated silence
while the raging blow
perforates his love.
I myself have been a witness
of what I am talking about and I can prove it.
The same soldier who imprisoned me
had his fill of torturing him.
It will be plain for the world to see
when the killer smugly
tells us in self-assured tone
“my hands are clean”.
They’ll will publish in the paper
that this prisoner lives with the guerrilla.
Yesterday I saw him on the ‘grill’
his hands bound, his legs burned.
They will kill him without killing him
they will wipe him off this world.
The sad ones will bury him,
the just, will hate deeply.
Even if the body buried by dangerous claws
rests in the earth,
no piercing spear
will wound the ideals of the libertarian.
He will remain in this world
lighting up the path.
The thoughts of the dying man
will not be forgotten, comrade.
The bitterness of this moment
became a wail in this throat.
Sadness is a plant
that grows in every man until it blossoms.
So this world blossoms
with the pain of the lost ones,
with the fertile battles
for the disappeared.
Contributed by Dq82 - 2017/11/8 - 09:08
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Documento
Varios de mis amigos y compañeros desaparecieron después de caer detenidos. La dictadura negaba conocer su paradero, pero yo sabía que mentía. Muchos de ellos estuvieron presos conmigo en los calabozos de Villa Grimaldi. Esta canción se cantó en una celda de la Cárcel de Valparaíso con un vigía parado al lado de la puerta, por si se acercaba algún gendarme. Hoy, junto con otras 26 canciones nacidas en la prisión, la “Canción del desaparecido” forma parte de mi disco Documento (1986) grabado en Alemania al cumplirse mis primeros diez años de exilio.
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