Camí avall - Joan Manuel Serrat

Maduraven els blats

L’estiu neixia

Les roselles anaven tenyint

Els camps;

Li deien Soledat

Rosó, Maria

I amb un pom de flors anava

Camí avall

Camí avall hi ha un revolt

I ell l’esperava

Li deien Pere, Joan

Lluís o Guillem

La duran ses mans tallades

Molt lluny de la seva gent

Camí avall

Queden les flors

Les anirà tapant

La pols

Que duu el vent

Però un dia els hi van dir:

«No cal que sembris

Que enguany els vostres camps

No han de dar blat

Cal que per un fusell

Canvieu l’arada.»

Camí avall de matí

Se’n va un soldat

Va cremar i va matar

Mentre envellia

Fins que un altre tirà

Abans que ell;

L’enterraren un bon dia

En un pou amb d’altres cent

Camí avall

Sense un adéu

Ningú no hi va posar una creu

No calia

Ella va plorar per

La mort de l’home

I pels camps on no

Hi creixia el blat

Pel camí arribaran

Unes mans joves

Per eixugar els seus ulls

I llaurar els camps

I altre cop naixeran

Blats i roselles

Cobrint les fèrtils tombes dels soldats:

Mor un vell, dos infants neixen

I tot perd l’olor a cremat

Camí avall

Un home mor

Camí avall

Queda un record

Del passat

I avui madurem els blats

L’estiu comença

I les roselles van

Tenyint els camps;

Li diuen Soledat

Rosó, Maria

I amb un pom de flors va

Camí avall

The wheat ripened

Summer was born

The poppies were dyeing

The fields;

They called him Solitude

Rosó, Maria

And with a bunch of flowers I went

Way down

On the way down there is a bend

And he was waiting for her

They called him Peter, John

Lluís or Guillem

Her hands will be cut off

Very far from its people

Way down

The flowers remain

He will cover them

The dust

That the wind blows

But one day they were told:

“You don't have to sow

That this year your fields

They must not give wheat

You need a rifle

Change the plow. ”

Way down in the morning

A soldier is leaving

He burned and killed

As he got older

Until another tyrant

Before him;

They buried him one fine day

In a well with a hundred others

Way down

Without a goodbye

No one put a cross on it

It was not necessary

She cried for

The death of man

And in the fields where not

Wheat grew there

Along the way they will arrive

Young hands

To dry his eyes

And plow the fields

And again they will be born

Wheat and poppies

Covering the fertile graves of the soldiers:

An old man dies, two children are born

And it all smells like burning

Way down

A man dies

Way down

A memory remains

From the past

And today we ripen the wheat

Summer is starting

And the poppies go

Dyeing the fields;

They call it Solitude

Rosó, Maria

And with a bunch of flowers he goes

Way down