Tonight the streets are ours

 

Tonight the streets are ours, esas luces nos nosos ollos non menten. Tres rapaces baixan pola rúa dos Aires, cara o porto, cantando. Acompañan aos nenos que corren desde hai séculos, pasan a Escola de Náutica e chegan á Aduana Vella. Alí recébeos o cheiro dos baleeiros, o comercio do kummel e do liño, un alemán que ergue o sombreiro ao seu paso, despois de chiscarlle o ollo ao espía da pérfida Albión. As xentes míranse nas caras embravecidas da tarde, á beira do mar. Alí, en Guimarán, en fronte da veciña pobra de Reboredo, atronan naos de lingua estraña mais coñecida. Levamos douscentos anos sangrando a vida e sorrindo, en amor de xerfa, de saqueos e namoros, en lealdade de traizóns e ataques partillados, neste Atlántico que nos fai e que nos une, universais, desde a Pena Furada e A Rochela rinlega ás costas de Portsmouth, Riga ou La Rochelle.

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