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"Ora, meu meniño, ora,
¿quen vos ha de dar a teta,
si túa nai vai no muíño,
e teu pai na leña seca?
"Eu cha dera, miña xoia,
con mil amores cha dera,
hastra rebotar, meu santo,
hastra que máis non quixeras,
hastra verte dormidiño
con esa boca tan feita,
sorrindo todo fartiño,
cal ubre de vaca cheia.
"Mais ¡ai, que noite che agarda!
Mais ¡ai, que noite che espera!
Que anque dúas fontes teño,
estas fontiñas non deitan.
"Ora, meu meniño, ora,
¡canto chorarás por ela!
Sin ter con que te a calente,
sin ter con que te adormeza,
que soio, soio quedaches
como unha ovelliña enferma,
tremando, malpocadiño,
como as ovelliñas treman.
"Sin cobirtor que te cruba
nunhas palliñas te deitan
e neve e chuvia en ti caen
por antre as fendidas tellas.
"E silba o vento que pasa
polas mal xuntadas pedras,
e cal coitelo afilado
no teu corpiño se ceiba.
"¡Ai, cando veña túa nai!
¡Ai, cando che a túa nai veña!
¡Cal te topará, meniño,
frío como a neve mesma,
para chorar sin alento,
rosiña que os ventos creban!...
"¡Ai, más valera, meniño,
que quen te dou non te dera!
Que os fillos dos probes nacen,
nacen para tales penas."
Así se espricaba Rosa
no medio da noite negra,
ó pé dunha negra porta,
toda de lañas cuberta.
Mentras tanto murmuxaban
por antre a robreda espesa
do río as revoltas ágoas
e os berridos da tormenta.
Todo era sombras no ceo,
todo era loito na terra,
e parece que a Compaña
bailaba antre as arboredas
cas chuchonas enemigas,
e cas estricadas meigas.
En tanto un choro soave
sentir no espazo se deixa,
tal como gaita tocada
nunha alborada serena;
tal como lexana frauta
cando o sol no mar se deita,
cuio son nos trai o vento
cos cheiriños da ribeira.
No meio da chouza escura
que triste Rosa contempra,
unha luz branca se mira
como aurora que comenza.
Olido de frescas rosas
os aires da noite incensan,
cal si todas se xuntaran
as froles da primadera.
Soan cantares estraños,
soan músicas que alegran:
músicas son e cantares
nunca sentidos na terra.
Por eso, pasmada, Rosa
pouquiño a pouco se achega
e por unha regandixa
postrada no chan axexa
Nunca humanos ollos viron
o que veu estonces ela,
que si non morreu estonces
foi porque Dios n'o quixera.
De resplandecente groria
raios de amor se refrexan
do abandonado meniño,
sobre a dourada cabeza;
e porque esté máis contento,
e porque mais se entretena,
cabe os seus peíños crecen
frescos ramos de azucenas.
Xa non dorme en probe cuna,
que outro berce lle fixeran
cas alas os anxeliños
e co seu lume as estrellas.
Nubes de color de rosa
fanlle branda cabeceira,
sírvelle de cubertura
un raio de luna cheia,
i a Virxen santa, vestida
con vestido de inocencia,
porque de fame non morra
e fartiño se adormeza,
dálle maná do seu peito
con que os seus labios refresca.
Mentras o mundo esistise,
Rosa mirando estivera,
con tanta groria encantada,
con tanta dicha suspensa;
mais unha voz lonxe se oie
por antre os olmos da veiga
que, cantando amorosiña,
se esprica desta maneira:
—Ora, meu meniño, ora,
logo che darei a teta,
ora, meu meniño, ora,
xa non chorarás por ela.
Esto cantaron. En tanto
coa Virxe despareceran
os anxeliños, deixando
en derredor noite espesa.
Xa se sinten as pisadas
por xunto da corredoira;
xa soltaron o portelo,
xa cerraron a cancela...
A probe nai corre, corre,
que o seu filliño lle espera;
mais, cando chega, dormido
o seu filliño contempra.
Dille estonces, mentras tanto,
que en bicalo se recrea:
—Miña xoia, miña xoia,
miña prenda, miña prenda,
¿que fora de ti, meu santo,
si naiciña non tiveras?
¿Quen, meu fillo, te limpara,
quen a mantenza che dera?
—O que mantén ás formigas
e ós paxariños sustenta—
Dixo Rosa, i escondeuse
por antre a nebrina espesa.
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"Now, my baby, now,
Who will give you suck
If your mother is at the watermill
And your father went for firewood?
"I would give it to you, my gem,
With a thousand loves I'd give it
Until it rebounded, my saint,
Until you'd want no more,
Until I'd see you peacefully asleep
With that beautiful mouth
Smiling, fully satisfied,
Like a replete cow's udder.
"But alas! what night awaits you!
But alas! what night lies in store for you!
For although I have two fountains,
These poor fountains do not flow.
"Now, my baby, now,
How much you will cry for it!
Having nothing to warm the night with,
Having nothing to make you fall asleep,
Since you were left alone,
Alone like an ailing little lamb,
Quivering, poor unfortunate one,
As the little lambs quiver.
"Without bedding to cover you
They lay you on a small bundle of straw
And snow and rain fall on you
Through the cracked roof tiles.
"And the passing wind whistles
Through the badly set stones,
And like a sharp knife stabs
Your frail body repeatedly.
"Alas, when your mother arrives!
Alas, upon your mother's arrival!
How she will find you, child,
Cold as the very snow,
Crying cheerless,
Delicate rose pricked by the winds!...
"Alas, it would have been better, baby,
That she who gave you birth had not!
For the offspring of the poor are born,
Are born to such woes."
Thus reasoned Rose
In the middle of the black night,
At the foot of a black door
Covered all over with cracks.
Meanwhile there murmured
Through the thick oakwood
The river's swirling waters
And the bellows of the storm.
All was shadows in the heaven,
All was bereavement on the earth,
And it seems that the Company
Danced in the woods together
With the baneful bloodsucking witches
And the haughty sorceresses.
Thereupon a whimper
Is felt in the ambience,
Like a bagpipe's playing
On a peaceful dawn;
Like a distant flute
Whose sound the wind fetches
Along with the fragrances of the strand
When the sun lies upon the sea.
In the middle of the unlit shack
Which saddened Rose gazed upon,
A white light is observed
Similar to the break of dawn.
The airs of the night dispense
A scent of fresh roses,
As if all the spring's flowers
Had assembled together.
There sound strange songs,
There sound lively melodies:
Melodies, sound and songs
Never sensed upon the earth.
That is why Rose, amazed,
Approaches haltingly
And prostrate on the ground
Peeps through a crack.
Never human eyes saw
What she then saw,
And if she did not die then
It was because God willed it not.
Love rays of glory
Resplendent reflect
Off the golden head
Of the abandoned baby;
And so that he'll be more cheerful,
And so that he'll be better entertained,
About his small feet grow
Fresh posies of Madonna lilies.
He no longer sleeps in a poor crib,
Small angels with their wings
And the stars with their light
Had made another cradle for him.
Clouds of pink colour
Make a soft pillow for him,
A beam of the full moon
Acts the part of eiderdown,
And the holy Madonna, robed
In vestment of innocence,
Gives him manna from her breast
That refreshes his lips,
So that he should not starve
But sated and satisfied fall asleep.
Rose would have stayed gazing at
So much enchanted glory,
So much hovering bliss,
For as long as the world were to exist;
But a distant voice is heard coming
From among the elms of the valley,
A voice that singing, doting, loving,
Defines itself thus:
"Now, my baby, now,
I will give you suck then,
Now, my baby, now,
And you won't cry for it anymore."
This was sung. Meanwhile the Madonna
Together with the little angels
Disappeared, leaving behind them
Thick night all around.
Footsteps can be made out now
Over by the country lane;
Now they unlatched the sheep gate,
Now they shut the front gate...
The poor mother runs,
Runs for her dear child awaits her;
But when she arrives
She beholds her dear child asleep.
Then she says to him while
She delights in kissing him:
"My gem, my gem,
My holdfast, my holdfast,
What would befall you, my saint,
If you did not have a mommy?
Who'd clean you, my child,
Who'd give you nourishment?"
"He who feeds the ants
And the little birds sustains,"
Said Rose, and she slipped away
In the surrounding thick mist.
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