Los Indios

America is the long road of the Indians
They are these peaks and that valley
And those quiet mountains lost in the fog
And that golden cornfield

And the gap between the stones, and the barren rock
From every place, the Indians are watching us
From all the high peaks, they keep an eye on us
The land has fattened with the flesh of the Indian

Their shadow is the sentinel of America's night
The condors know the silence of the Indian
And their broken cry sleeps down in the depths
Wherever we go, the Indian is present

We breathe it in. We sense it walking through their lands
Quechua, Aymara, Tehuelche, Guaraní or Mocoví
Chiriguano or Charrúa, Chibcha, Mataco or Pampa
Ranquel, Arauco, Patacón, Diaguita or Calchaquí

Omahuaca, Atacama, Tonocotés or Toba
From every place, the Indians are watching us
Because America is that: A long road of sacred Indianness
Between the great plain, the jungle, and the high stone

And under the eternity of the constellations
Yes, America is the long road of the Indians
And from every place, they are watching us.