Manuel

They called him Manuel, born in Spain, his house was made of mud, of mud and cane. The lord's lands moistened his sweat and tears, day after day. Beggar with a fixed wage like him there was none among olives and wheat, for a crust of bread. His house was made of mud, of mud and cane, they called him Manuel, born in Spain. They called him Manuel, born in Spain, his world was another world, beyond the mountain. The lands belonged to the master, downhill the blackberries and flowers of the ditches. The mule and the harness, the bread and the wine, the trees, the stones, and the roads. His world was another world, beyond the mountain, they called him Manuel, born in Spain. They called him Manuel, born in Spain, she carried a child in her womb. Nothing was ever theirs, they had nothing, that's why he cried so much when they died. He with his own hands dug a grave burying his dreams next to his wife. She carried a child in her womb, they called him Manuel, born in Spain. They called him Manuel, born in Spain, they saw him walk away one morning. The olive tree belonged to the master, where they found him and the rope of esparto they untied. And the piece of land where he now rots and the wheat that covers his grave in the mountains. They saw him walk away one morning. They called him Manuel, born in Spain.