abuse the student in the Faculty of Falange hilop follow the storyline of feeling pain, but pride of pain. despair, but faith in the engine of the dreams that do not enslave. Longing for a better Spain.
then answer a simple question: Do you think it was a Falangist Quevedo history?
Back
are Quevedo's verse, the verses of Lope, the songs of Garcia Serrano, of many: all for you, beautiful among the most beautiful land of my love, my biggest solar, my memory life. Today you are forgotten, barren and abandoned by outmoded.
If, then mind your name, it is shame fascist state your reality, anathema to liberals, true story mind you, is flushing and shame for historians red card, fattened on the salary of this evil government.
The Basques now call you "The State", the wandering of the communist left, "El Pais", the ambush of international socialism, "community of nations." I think it's fear: for thy name alone imposes awe, when pronounced, as did phone thirds wherever they planted their spears and were square. Before were the Britons, the gringos, Flemish heretics and the Moor; your enemies. There you!. Today your enemies are kept inside the seats in the senate and the parliament that your name was glory and your image is jealously guarded and revered faithful respect. You just have the people, your people, the essence and truth, the national reality, then you're us and we are you. Symbiosis of a magical land and its people, the living memory of our dollars and history to pick and hoe, coup, revolution and saber, we are forging. For
is what your enemy fears most, since neither rewriting our history a thousand times, they can erase your memory, he can not separate the soul from the flesh. Facts are stubborn. You are the soul, your people is your meat. Encourage your name soon, will exercise clandestine whispers can only speak of you that we know part of you. For in your solar immortal soul resides in your people, my land, our families are our identity. On your land
took my first steps, I had my first loves. Your water took away my thirst, your hunger satiated fields me, and I; million. Legions of my ancestors have made fertile your soil with their blood and sweat of their labor.
Today I want to bury it, when you are not yet defunct. How dare?. What mortal can sign your own death?. Those who are mortal can do nothing against you, just against your people, then you're immortal, you are our memory, the faith of our existence and perennial displays our collective identity.
remember those verses that the poet bequeathed you:
A Goth, a mountain cave
saved, could collect Castile;
Genil Betis and the two sides
the heirs of so great a feat.
A Navarra gave you justice and skill,
And a wedding in Aragon
chairs that humble Sicily and Naples, and whom
splendid accompanying Milan. Death
unhappy in Portugal arbola
your Castles, Columbus spent the Goths ignored
the fence of the ball.
And it's easier, oh Spain!, In many ways,
what you took all alone, you
you alone can remove all.
to you Spain, fertile peninsula and golden sun of my elders, dear land and helpless, who can deny today?. Past, present and future generations at all the vile signs of bad rulers can hide you, neither the name nor the name nor the glory of your gold history. The honor you can not be taken away. In this hour dull dark conspiracy, just scream your name, you can, cover a thousand and one felony, for you have seen more evil than any mortal, and still present. You lose you saw thousands of your flags, to the Muslims ride on your lands, wreck your fleets and flames sweep your fields, still present. Bad leaders have
lighting, unworthy of your glory, the glory as your people only and always has been conquered for you, naked, without shoes, shabby, with the worst weapons and underfed, but always triumphant even in the most bitter of losses. With the honor of knowing English.
For your people, the words of the song: God, good vassal if Obiero good lord ...
And to you the cry of the great English soldier:
Santiago and close Spain!
F. Rector Franco
is what your enemy fears most, since neither rewriting our history a thousand times, they can erase your memory, he can not separate the soul from the flesh. Facts are stubborn. You are the soul, your people is your meat. Encourage your name soon, will exercise clandestine whispers can only speak of you that we know part of you. For in your solar immortal soul resides in your people, my land, our families are our identity. On your land
took my first steps, I had my first loves. Your water took away my thirst, your hunger satiated fields me, and I; million. Legions of my ancestors have made fertile your soil with their blood and sweat of their labor.
Today I want to bury it, when you are not yet defunct. How dare?. What mortal can sign your own death?. Those who are mortal can do nothing against you, just against your people, then you're immortal, you are our memory, the faith of our existence and perennial displays our collective identity.
remember those verses that the poet bequeathed you:
A Goth, a mountain cave
saved, could collect Castile;
Genil Betis and the two sides
the heirs of so great a feat.
A Navarra gave you justice and skill,
And a wedding in Aragon
chairs that humble Sicily and Naples, and whom
splendid accompanying Milan. Death
unhappy in Portugal arbola
your Castles, Columbus spent the Goths ignored
the fence of the ball.
And it's easier, oh Spain!, In many ways,
what you took all alone, you
you alone can remove all.
to you Spain, fertile peninsula and golden sun of my elders, dear land and helpless, who can deny today?. Past, present and future generations at all the vile signs of bad rulers can hide you, neither the name nor the name nor the glory of your gold history. The honor you can not be taken away. In this hour dull dark conspiracy, just scream your name, you can, cover a thousand and one felony, for you have seen more evil than any mortal, and still present. You lose you saw thousands of your flags, to the Muslims ride on your lands, wreck your fleets and flames sweep your fields, still present. Bad leaders have
lighting, unworthy of your glory, the glory as your people only and always has been conquered for you, naked, without shoes, shabby, with the worst weapons and underfed, but always triumphant even in the most bitter of losses. With the honor of knowing English.
For your people, the words of the song: God, good vassal if Obiero good lord ...
And to you the cry of the great English soldier:
Santiago and close Spain!
F. Rector Franco
0 comments:
Post a Comment