Joropo Siempre Joropo

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa....
Joropo sweetens my chest
To sing to you with desire
You are my faithful companion
When I go to the parties
When I sing to you I feel
A joy in my soul
My heart expands
My throat adorns,
Who listens to you applauds you
Indulges and dances with you
Shouts and stomps for you,
Spinning around the room
With you my Venezuelan homeland identifies
Because you were born here,
Like the folklore of the savannah,
The musicians and troubadours
From the past
Took you out for a walk,
Along with the musical staff,
The man with the handkerchief
Don Juan Vicente Torrealba
Took you to Caracas,
So you could be immortalized,
You arrived on vinyl
To cover yourself in fame
Since then until now,
At any gala party,
You are the great guest
Because you have plenty of courage
That's why Joropo is mine,
Wherever I go,
It is as Creole as the dawn
That breaks in the grove
Like the anthem and the flag
Of my sovereign homeland
That's why I leave it here
At the foot of the woven harp
In the hands of this harpist
Who plays without pretense
The cheerful and sonorous cuatro
That leaves in each step
A note of hope
Among the armored strings
Of the night-loving bass
Played with great enthusiasm
And the chi cha of the maracas
In the midst of the grove.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...
Joyful harpist of Joropo
So the party continues
Because here no one sleeps,
While the manduana harp,
Continues playing and I sing
With my pure and clear voice
Drawing with my verses
Estero savannah and palm
Painting so many motifs
Of this legendary land
Tell me who doesn't get excited,
Seeing how the waters flow down,
From the beautiful Apure River
As it goes from side to side
Hearing the voice of a troubadour,
Singing to Puerto Miranda,
Seeing a rider on horseback
With the rope tied up
Having a cerrero coffee,
At the break of dawn,
Tell me then little friend
Tell me then comrade
If I am not right,
If my words are not true,
Maestro keep playing
This is not over yet
Because I feel in my chest,
An overwhelming emotion
And the desire to sing
Comes to me in droves
Like a bull's shuffle
That knocks down the fence
That's my Joropo
Son of this flat land
As pure as the love
Of the Indian María Laya
Fresh as a spring
Sweet as sugar cane
It has the tone of Florentino
From the Araucanian lands
The cry of Ángel Custodio
The soul of Luis Lozada
And it has a taste of the plains
That I wouldn't trade for anything...