In the fields where the winds still mourn,
Belchite stands, a town forlorn.
Its stones, once kissed by sunlit skies,
Now bear the scars of war’s cruel cries.
The year was ’37, flames did roar,
As battle drums beat, a violent war.
Aragonese soil soaked in blood and pain,
In the heat of summer’s blistering reign.
The men who fought, with courage steeped,
Their souls in trenches, buried deep.
The air, once rich with life’s sweet song,
Echoed instead with suffering long.
The echoes of gunfire fill the air,
As ghosts of fallen soldiers glare.
Belchite, broken but standing tall,
A silent witness to humanity’s fall.
Rubble and dust, in the village’s veins,
A haunting reminder of endless chains.
The victors left, yet the price was steep,
As history’s promise begins to weep.
Now the wind whispers of what was lost,
Of lives sacrificed at such a cost.
And in Belchite’s ruins, we see the trace,
Of war’s dark shadow on this sacred place.
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