Translation of the song lyrics La noche de Viernes Santo - Marea

La noche de Viernes Santo (original)

Llegó rumiando piedras tras caer
Surcada por las cuerdas del serón
La lluvia, recogida en puño
Demasiada piel
Demasiado que perder…
Pero todo lo perdió
Venía mascullando su oración
Luciendo el altozano en el costal
Bullendo -igual que bulle el miedo sujeto al ronzal-;
Arrastrando el sinsabor de su sola soledad
Enséñame tus alas de zorzal
Aburridas de rezar
Entre el brillo y el espanto
Tu aliento de tomillo, tu verdad
Tu mirada de humedad
Tu dolor de Viernes santo
Traía, en la ojeras, una luz
Brotando de la grieta que pintó
Quería que su romería fuese multitud
Y, el de los brazos en cruz
Nunca, de ella, se acordó
Enséñame esa noche que tendrá
Una senda que labrar
Que me cubra con su manto
Que no me despedace al recordar
Que no pude remendar
Tu dolor de Viernes santo
Y en esta orilla, que chilla de tanto aguantar
Fue la costilla rota de Adán;
La de la vieja Andalucía rebuscando pan;
La que ha masticado el sol;
la salina de mi sal
Enséñame tus alas de zorzal
Aburridas de rezar
Entre el brillo y el espanto
Tu aliento de tomillo, tu verdad
Tu mirada de humedad
Tu dolor de Viernes santo
Enséñame esa noche que tendrá
Una senda que labrar
Que me cubra con su manto
Que no me despedace al recordar
Que no pude remendar
Tu dolor de Viernes santo

(translation)

He came ruminating stones after falling
Crossed by the ropes of the serón
The rain, collected in a fist
too much skin
Too much to lose...
But everything was lost
She came mumbling her prayer
Wearing the lofty in the sack
Seething -just as fear subject to the halter is seething-;
Dragging the distaste of his only loneliness
Show me your thrush wings
bored of praying
Between the brilliance and the fright
Your thyme breath, your truth
your look of moisture
Your Good Friday pain
He brought, in the dark circles, a light
Springing from the crack that she painted
He wanted her pilgrimage to be a crowd
And, the one with the crossed arms
She never remembered
Show me that night that she will have
A path to work
May she cover me with her mantle
That she doesn't tear me to pieces by remembering
that I couldn't mend
Your Good Friday pain
And on this shore, which screams from so much enduring
It was Adam's broken rib;
The one from old Andalusia looking for bread;
The one that has chewed the sun;
the saline of my salt
Show me your thrush wings
bored of praying
Between the brilliance and the fright
Your thyme breath, your truth
your look of moisture
Your Good Friday pain
Show me that night you will have
A path to work
May she cover me with her mantle
That does not tear me apart when remembering
that I couldn't mend
Your Good Friday pain