Atacameño

Atacameño Indian, Likanantay,
I speak to you about the desert,
Zupay, Zupay.
Tell me how you live
among your llamas
through the dry paths
of the Atacama.

I whistle and walk,
I wake up and rejoice,
I shout and smile,
I come and shepherd.

Son of the stones,
nephew of the wind,
the sun is my father,
I am Atacameño.

Tell me what you buy,
tell me what you sell,
where you go
and where you come from.

I go to Bolivia,
I come from Argentina,
I bring dried conger eel,
freeze-dried potatoes, salt, and flour.

Fruit and carob,
farina feathers,
leather sandals,
papayas and quinoa.

I return through the highlands,
I chew my coca,
I herd my llamas
and drink my chicha.

And if on the way
I meet an Indian woman,
Ckockuntur ckiptur,
with a smile.

Son of the stones
and the scorching sun,
I come from life,
I go towards death.