Esta tierra

This land was made with hammer blows
And they opened its bowels with shovel and pick
To pull out the new wheat in autumn
To drink its old wine in sips

And I, who have no homeland or flag
I will die of sorrow if this land dies.

This land was made with tears and sighs,
The wind tanned its skin. Like an old friend
It passed leaving footprints and farewells
A smell of death and another of life

And I, who have no homeland or flag
I will die of sorrow if this land dies.

This land was made by men of a race
Who silence their sorrow before it is born
Hard as stone, silent and eternal
Who keep their bitterness to drink it

And I, who have no homeland or flag
I will die of sorrow if this land dies.