Pongale Por Las Hileras

The grape clusters are golden
When the vines are pruned
For the provinces of the south
This offering made cueca
That when watered with my song
I open all the floodgates

For the harvest time
How beautiful the homeland becomes

There's a sparkle in the eyes
Of the countryman

Going back and forth in the cart
From the vineyard to the winery

Always a cluster to deliver
Of the white or the black

Put them in rows
Without leaving any cluster

The winery must be filled
The wine is running out!

The young man has left the basket
She leaves the scissors

And they rehearse as if playing
A cueca in the rows

And at night under the open sky
There are a thousand local songs

And among verses a little wine
Called dream-chaser