El niño yuntero

Flesh of the yoke, he was born

more humbled than handsome,

with his neck plagued

by the neck-yoke.

He is born, like a tool,

destined to receive the blows

of a discontented land

and an unsatisfied plough.

Amongst pure, living cow dung,

he brings into life

a soul the colour of olives,

now old and silent.

He begins to live, and he begins

to die bit by bit

raising the crust

of his mother with the yoked oxen.

He begins to feel, and he feels

life is like a war,

and in his fatigue he knocks

against the bones of the earth.

He cannot count his age,

yet he knows that sweat

is a solemn crown

of salt for the labourer.

He works, and whilst he works,

serious and masculine,

he is anointed with rain and bedecked

with cemetery flesh.

Made strong by repeated blows,

and burnished by the sun,

with an ambition for death

he breaks the bread for which he has fought.

With each new day he is

more like a root, less like a human being,

listening to the voice of the grave

beneath his feet.

And like a root he sinks down

slowly into the earth

so that the earth can flood

his brow with peace and bread.

I am pained by this hungry child,

a skeleton in skin,

and his ashen life

turns over my soul of oak.

I see him plough the stubble,

and devour a scrap of food,

and declare with his eyes

why is he flesh of the yoke.

His plough strikes at my chest,

his life at my throat,

and it pains me to see the earth

so great, so bare beneath his feet. 

Who will save this little child,

smaller than an oat grain?

Where is the hammer that will come forth

and smash this chain?

May it come from the hearts

of labouring men,

who before they are men are

and have been children of the plough.

Carne de yugo, ha nacido

más humillado que bello,

con el cuello perseguido

por el yugo para el cuello.

Nace, como la herramienta,

a los golpes destinado,

de una tierra descontenta

y un insatisfecho arado.

Entre estiércol puro y vivo

de vacas, trae a la vida

un alma color de olivo

vieja ya y encallecida.

Empieza a vivir, y empieza

a morir de punta a punta

levantando la corteza

de su madre con la yunta.

Empieza a sentir, y siente

la vida como una guerra

y a dar fatigosamente

en los huesos de la tierra.

Contar sus años no sabe,

y ya sabe que el sudor

es una corona grave

de sal para el labrador.

Trabaja, y mientras trabaja

masculinamente serio,

se unge de lluvia y se alhaja

de carne de cementerio.

A fuerza de golpes, fuerte,

y a fuerza de sol, bruñido,

con una ambición de muerte

despedaza un pan reñido.

Cada nuevo día es

más raíz, menos criatura,

que escucha bajo sus pies

la voz de la sepultura.

Y como raíz se hunde

en la tierra lentamente

para que la tierra inunde

de paz y panes su frente.

Me duele este niño hambriento

como una grandiosa espina,

y su vivir ceniciento

resuelve mi alma de encina.

Lo veo arar los rastrojos,

y devorar un mendrugo,

y declarar con los ojos

que por qué es carne de yugo.

Me da su arado en el pecho,

y su vida en la garganta,

y sufro viendo el barbecho

tan grande bajo su planta.

¿Quién salvará a este chiquillo

menor que un grano de avena?

¿De dónde saldrá el martillo

verdugo de esta cadena?

Que salga del corazón

de los hombres jornaleros,

que antes de ser hombres son

y han sido niños yunteros.