El país perdido
Lost under the Lost Mountain
you were a lost country.
My old shire, lord of the mountains
you are letting yourself die
Lost pride, lost future
lost, lost country.

Country of silence, of absence and forgetting
sad mountains and solitude.
Country without history, people without roots,
the oak will dry up;
you were too much; all they wanted was water,
mountains, and electricity.

The maps continued to bear your name.
Who can forget you!
Arrogant rock stacks and swollen rivers
shouted: "We’re still here.”
But divided and without a fight
we were losing you, our country.

Maybe you were taken away in bits
by the people forced to leave,
or under the waters of a black reservoir
you lie sleeping in peace,
like the ruins of San Beturian
at the foot of Peña Montañesa

I invoke your name, Sobrarbe!
Arise, you must awaken!
I invoke your name, country of my fathers,
you will be the country of my offspring
if the people wake up: those who wrote the Charters
and created Aragon.

From the Pyrenees to the Sierra de Guara,
it is all mine:
the Ara and the Cinca, the Cinqueta and the Fueva,
all Sobrarbe is my home.
Divided, our house will fall
but united we will win.

Come, gods sleeping under a dolmen!
Warriors and saints come here!
Sons of history and our legends,
we ask you to help, come here!
Cross the passes now, ancient guerrillas,
we will reconquer the country!

Cold winds of January, storms of August
beat the drum without cease!
If we stick together in this battle
the lightning will again make
a cross of fire on the oak tree,
and Sobrarbe will be reborn.


Words and music: Manuel Domínguez
Traduction: Stephen Cracknell