El taipero
Alfredo Zitarrosa
The Rice Worker
Memories of the rice worker nights,
peasant in the rice field bent under suns and stars,
wedge of hope driven into Cebollatí.
The rice worker...
Hard is the song in the February harvest,
when the horizon turns into bitter worker's chant,
whistles the unhappy rustling of the rice field.
The rice worker...
Sad life this is, the one in the rice field,
a few pesos to waste.
Smuggling the laborers
come from Brazil,
looking for the rice field in Cebollatí.
The clods give stems and songs
of bitter and suffering homeland,
man's pain the wound,
that the cane soothes a little,
from sun to sun, tough feat
that consumes our lives.
Ducks and seagulls accompany the rice worker,
until the rain brings calm to the sheds,
songs and guitars easing existence.
The rice worker...
On Sunday there's a party in Cebollatí,
I'll spend my money without thinking of you.
The rice worker... the rice worker...
(The italicized texts correspond to recited parts)
