Aquel domingo en Birmingham, Alabama

Sucede con frecuencia que la música se encadena y se articula por voluntad propia con una idea, con un recuerdo, con una ocasión vivida. Y se produce entonces como una simbiosis entre los dos elementos, que liberan en nuestro interior inexplicables resortes que amplifican el efecto de ambos. Así ocurre especialmente con el Alabama que nos ha presentado "El marino", canto dolorido a la muerte de cuatro niñas por miembros del Ku Klux Klan. La bomba que alevosamente hicieron explosionar aquellos criminales en la Iglesia Baptista de la Calle 16 de Birmingham, en Alabama, Estados Unidos de Norteamérica, en la mañana del domingo 15 de septiembre de 1963, segó la vida de cuatro inocentes retoños, una niña de once años y tres de catorce, que en ese momento se vestían para el coro en los sótanos de la iglesia. Los heridos fueron del orden de la veintena. Este suceso de inspiración racista significó, por lo evidente, gratuito y atroz, un cambio radical en el movimiento por los derechos civiles al comienzo de la segunda mitad del siglo XX. Al laudatorio de Martin Luther King en el funeral de tres de las niñas asistieron ocho mil personas, y se contaron casi por igual blancos y negros.

La canción Birmingham Sunday es el tributo que Joan Baez dedicó al triste recuerdo.

Lyrics as reprinted in Guy and Candie Carawan, Sing for Freedom: The Story of
the Civil Rights Movement through its songs, Bethlehem, PA, 1990, pp. 122-123.



Come round by my side and I'll sing you a song.
I'll sing it so softly, it'll do no one wrong.
On Birmingham Sunday the blood ran like wine,
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.
That cold autumn morning no eyes saw the sun,
And Addie Mae Collins, her number was one.
At an old Baptist church there was no need to run.
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom,
The clouds they were grey and the autumn winds blew,
And Denise McNair brought the number to two.
The falcon of death was a creature they knew,
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom,
The church it was crowded, but no one could see
That Cynthia Wesley's dark number was three.
Her prayers and her feelings would shame you and me.
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.
Young Carol Robertson entered the door
And the number her killers had given was four.
She asked for a blessing but asked for no more,
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.
On Birmingham Sunday a noise shook the ground.
And people all over the earth turned around.
For no one recalled a more cowardly sound.
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.
The men in the forest they once asked of me,
How many black berries grew in the Blue Sea.
And I asked them right with a tear in my eye.
How many dark ships in the forest?
The Sunday has come and the Sunday has gone.
And I can't do much more than to sing you a song.
I'll sing it so softly, it'll do no one wrong.
And the choirs keep singing of Freedom.