Allá en el Sur

(Song)

Down South the valley will fill with goodbyes,
autumning the skin of the fruit trees
where the wind takes up again, in its violins,
the hurtful motives of the evening.

Down South maybe your thirsty voice
is naming me with the last grapes;
down South I will lose myself in your dreams,
like scattered birds of mist.

Down South the poplars, the poplars and the wind
will sow nostalgia on the roads;
down South maybe, maybe it's raining
on the sunny face of friends.

Down South my silent mother
will invent songs for my absence;
down South the most wounded cry of my land
could be calling me.