La Contraviesa

Like milk on the fire
(Epifanío Lupión, troubadour)
I'm heading through the Contraviesa on top of Sierra Nevada
in the middle of Alpujarra where there's so much clarity
mountains full of almond trees and in the distance, yes, you can see the sea
and by my side a friend I truly care about.
Half-empty towns, good people like bread
little firewood in the stove, a lot of abandoned land.
A crow flies by and a dog starts barking
some doors open and others stay shut.
Oh, the sadness I feel seeing
the old folks with broken backs.
In front of everyone, I swear by the mother who bore me:
this land will rise!
I'm walking through the Contraviesa, a little path from Granada
the moon's in the sky and the wind's pushing the clouds.
From the mountain and the stream, people start to arrive
shivering from the cold, they enter the farmhouse.
On the table, fried goat, wine, and bread
to regain strength and clear the throat.
A light throat and a weight in the heart
that will be thrown out as soon as everyone shuts up:
In the Moorish style, the guitar keeps the beat
the violin slicing through, the bandurria weaves.
And the sudden verse from the voice comes out to sing:
Long live the Alpujarras! Long live the popular trovo!