Airiños, airiños, aires

Airiños, airiños, aires,
airiños da miña terra,
airiños, airiños, aires,
airiños levaime a ela.

Sin ela vivir non podo,
non podo vivir contenta,
que a donde queira que vaia
cróbeme unha sombra espesa.
Cróbeme unha espesa nube
tal preñada de tormentas,
tal de soidás preñada
que a miña vida envenena.
Levaime, levaime, airiños,
como unha folliña seca,
que seca tamén me puxo
a callentura que queima.
¡Ay! si non me levás pronto,
airiños da miña terra,
si non me levás, airiños,
quisais xa non me conesan,
que a frebe que de min come
vaime consumindo lenta,
e no meu corazonciño
tamén traidora se ceiba.

[…]

Levaime, levaime, airiños,
levaime a donde espera
unha nai, que por min chora,
un pai que sin min n´alenta,
un irman por quen daría
a sangue das miñas venas,
e un amoriño, a quen alma
e vida prometera.
Si pronto non me levades
¡ay! morrerei de tristeza,
soia, nunha terra estraña
donde estraña me alomean,
donde todo canto, miro,
todo me dice ¡Estranxeira!

¡Ay! miña probe casiña!
¡Ay! miña vaca vermella,
años que balás nos montes
pombas qu´arrulás nas eiras,
mozas que atruxás bailando
redobre das castañetas,

[…]

¡Ai! quen fora paxariño
de leves alas lixeiras
¡Ai! con que prisa voara
toliña de tan contenta,
para cantar á alborada
nos campos da miña terra!
Agora mesmo partira,
partira como unha frecha,
sin medo as sombras da noite,
sin medo a noite negra;
e que chovera ou ventara,
e que ventara ou chovera,
voaría, voaría
hasta que alcansase a vela.
Pero non son paxariño
e irei morrendo de pena,
xa en lagrimas convertida,
xa en sospiriños desfeita.

[…]

Non permitás que aquí morra,
airiños da miña terra,
que inda penso que de morta
hei de sospirar por ela.
Aínda penso, airiños, aires,
que dimpois de morta sea
e aló polo campo santo,
donde enterrada me teñan,
pasés na calada noite
runxindo antre a folla seca,
ou murmurando medrosos
antre as brancas calaveras;
inda dimpois de mortiña,
airiños da miña terra,
Heivos de berrar: “ ¡Airiños,
airiños, levaime a ela!

Little breezes, breezy breezes

Little breezes, breezy breezes,
Little breezes of my land;
Little breezes, breezy breezes,
Little breezes, lift me home.

Without my home I cannot live,
Cannot live in happiness,
For wherever I want to go,
In thick shadow I am dressed.
A thick cloud cloaks me,
Pregnant with its storms,
Pregnant with loneliness,
It poisons my life.
Lift me, lift me, little breezes,
Like a tiny brittle leaf,
For I too am left dry
By the burning heat.
Oh, if you don’t soon lift me upward,
Little breezes of my land,
If you don’t lift me, little breezes,
No one will recognize me soon.
For the fever that eats me
Will slowly consume me
And will even break out
In betrayal in my own heart.

[…]

Lift me, lift me, little breezes,
Lift me to where they wait:
A mother who sheds tears for me,
A father who without me cannot breathe,
A brother for whom I’d give
The blood inside my veins
And a lover to whom my soul
And life I’ve promised.
If you don’t soon lift me upward,
Oh, I’ll die of unhappiness,
Alone in a strange country
Where they light on me as strange,
Where no matter where I look
Everything says I don’t belong.

Oh my poor house I call home!
Oh my ruddy Galician cow!
Rams, that bleat up in the mountains,
Coo of doves in threshing yards,
Whoops of young gallants dancing,
Clack of the castanets,

[…]

Oh, if only I were a wee bird
With light and speedy wings!
Oh, I’d fly so quickly,
Crazed with happiness,
To sing at daybreak
In the fields of my land and home!
I’d leave this very minute,
Like an arrow I’d be gone,
Unafraid of night’s shadows,
Unafraid of blackest night.
And rain or wind wouldn’t stop me,
I wouldn’t stop for wind or rain,
I’d fly and fly above
Until my native land I saw.
But alas, I am no songbird
And I’ll go on dying of my pain,
Racked with tears already
And broken in my sighs.

[…]

Don’t let me die here,
Little breezes of my land,
Though I think that even dead
I’ll still sigh to go there.
I still think, breezy breezes,
That when I’m dead and gone
And off there in the graveyard,
With earth heaped over me,
You’ll pass by in the depths of night
Rustling the dry leaves
Or whistling frightfully
Between the bleached white skulls,
Even after sweet death greets me,
Little breezes of my land,
I’ll cry out to you: ‘Little breezes,
Little breezes, lift me home!’

TRADUCIÓN AO INGLÉS DE ERÍN MOURE, tirado de Galician Songs (Small Stations Press-Xunta de Galicia, 2013)

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