I join Hadabruja , in his tribute to the heroic resistance of the Honduran people, with these verses Miguel Hernández, and Serrat's song in his younger days ...
The Wounded
(1939)
I
On the battlefields extend the wounded.
And from that field extension
wrestlers skip a cornfield in hot jets, extended
in husky voices.
Blood always rains up to the sky.
And the wounds they sound, like seashells,
when the wounds swiftness of flight,
essence of the waves.
blood smells of the sea, sea and wine tastes.
sea winery, wine bravo,
bursts where the wounded man drowns, shuddering,
and flowers, and is.
I am wounded, look at me: I need more lives.
The one that is too small for the great task
want to lose blood from wounds.
Tell me who was not injured.
My life is a happy childhood injury.
unto those who are not wounded, who never feels
wounded by life, or life lies wounded
cheerfully!
If even the hospitals are going with joy,
orchards become gaping wounds,
of oleanders bloom before the surgery.
of bloody doors.
II
bleed for freedom, fight, live on.
For freedom, my eyes and my hands,
as a tree of blood, generous and imprisoned, I
surgeons.
of freedom I feel more hearts
that sand in my chest, my veins are foams,
and go into the hospitals, and entered the cotton
as lilies.
of freedom I loose in battle
of those who have rolled his statue in the mud.
And I break loose shots of my feet of my arms,
my house, everything.
Because where some empty matted,
she will put two stones into the future,
and make new arms and legs to grow new
in meat harvested.
sprout winged autumn sap without
relics of my body I lose every wound.
Because I am like the tree cut down, that sucker:
because even I have a life.
On the battlefields extend the wounded.
And from that field extension
wrestlers skip a cornfield in hot jets, extended
in husky voices.
Blood always rains up to the sky.
And the wounds they sound, like seashells,
when the wounds swiftness of flight,
essence of the waves.
blood smells of the sea, sea and wine tastes.
sea winery, wine bravo,
bursts where the wounded man drowns, shuddering,
and flowers, and is.
I am wounded, look at me: I need more lives.
The one that is too small for the great task
want to lose blood from wounds.
Tell me who was not injured.
My life is a happy childhood injury.
unto those who are not wounded, who never feels
wounded by life, or life lies wounded
cheerfully!
If even the hospitals are going with joy,
orchards become gaping wounds,
of oleanders bloom before the surgery.
of bloody doors.
II
bleed for freedom, fight, live on.
For freedom, my eyes and my hands,
as a tree of blood, generous and imprisoned, I
surgeons.
of freedom I feel more hearts
that sand in my chest, my veins are foams,
and go into the hospitals, and entered the cotton
as lilies.
of freedom I loose in battle
of those who have rolled his statue in the mud.
And I break loose shots of my feet of my arms,
my house, everything.
Because where some empty matted,
she will put two stones into the future,
and make new arms and legs to grow new
in meat harvested.
sprout winged autumn sap without
relics of my body I lose every wound.
Because I am like the tree cut down, that sucker:
because even I have a life.
Miguel Hernández
"Although the fall of your graves cover story with apparent dust of oblivion, never give up or to oldest our dreams "Miguel Hernández
... Deposit of junk ... (Http://corotos.blogspot.com/) 
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