Se van llevando la memoria,
queda en la historia una mancha, un borrón.
Mientras el resto sufre amnesia,
un viejo recuerda una canción,

de aquella lejana batalla
donde pudo morir,
en una guerra no ganada,
a veces me pregunta por ti.

Se cree aún en la trinchera,
otra bandera, de otro color,
solemne en su viento ondea,
sobre la cima y en su salón.

A veces habla con fantasmas
de cuyo nombre se olvidó.
Vencidos, nunca regresaron
de su exilio interior.

Ni un momento, ni un recuerdo,
para los que perdieron, los que construyeron
la tumba, el mausoleo,
de la miseria, del carnicero.

¿Cómo esperas ganar sin ellos
las batallas que anteriormente perdieron?
Si han de callar, que callen aquellos,
los que firmaron pactos de silencio.

Tratan de convencerle, abuelo,
las explosiones han terminado.
Pero cuando sale a la calle,
Madrid parece bombardeado.

Y lee escritos en los muros,
gritos contra los que luchó,
y personajes de rostro oscuro
que le inculcaron el terror.

Y un día, sin darnos cuenta,
el viejo, con sus historias, se consumió
Y en la memoria de su nieto
sólo una huella, un leve borrón,

de aquella lejana batalla,
donde pudo morir,
en una guerra no ganada
donde luchó por ti.

Donde luchó por ti.

Translated Version

They're taking away their memory,
there's a stain, a blur left in history.
While the rest suffer from amnesia,
an old man remembers a song,

of that distant battle
where he could have died,
in an un won-win war,
sometimes he asks me about you.

You still believe in the trench,
another flag, of another color,
solemn in his wind waves,
over the top and in his living room.

Sometimes talks to ghosts
whose name he forgot.
Defeated, they never came back
of his inner exile.

Not a moment, not a memory,
for those who lost, those who built
the tomb, the mausoleum,
of misery, of the butcher.

How do you expect to win without them
the battles they previously lost?
If you are to shut up, let those shut up,
those who signed quiet pacts.

They're trying to convince you, Grandpa,
The explosions are over.
But when he goes out on the street,
Madrid seems bombed.

And read writings on the walls,
cries against those he fought against,
and dark-faced characters
who instilled in him terror.

And one day, without realizing it,
the old man, with his stories, consumed himself
And in his grandson's memory
just a print, a slight blur,

of that distant battle,
where he could have died,
in an un won-win war
where he fought for you.

Where he fought for you.