In the land where sun meets sea,
Shadows of the past still breathe,
Whispers of forgotten lore,
Echo through the ancient door.

Blood-stained fields of yesteryear,
Warriors’ cries we still can hear,
Silent winds that tell the tale,
Of Spanish death, of hearts so frail.

Beneath the sky, red as wine,
Spirits wander, lost in time,
Seeking peace in endless night,
Guided by the pale moonlight.

The echoes of their final breath,
Lingering in the dance of death,
A solemn song that never ends,
In Spain, where history blends.