Al son de los tamboriles

Mom, why do you talk to yourself
while you clean the attic?
For the years you've lived,
for those things that happen
between hidden and tucked away.
I have the boots at home
from that first journey of yours.

From that first journey of mine,
a twenty-four was my size,
can you believe what a wanderer?
I bet my footsteps make you smile
among eucalyptus and pines.

My little heart raced
to the beat of the drums.
A salve was the lullaby
to the beat of the drums.
In my dreams, I played
with the child of the Virgin.

Tell me why the headbands
have their names embroidered.
What a tiny cap.
Who cut that half blanket?
Who crossed the child's fire?
Who would see her barefoot
with new espadrilles?

With new espadrilles.
As that crowd passed by,
I traced the path,
and I felt you walking in my belly
of rockrose and full moon.

My little heart raced
to the beat of the drums.
A salve was the lullaby
to the beat of the drums.
In my dreams, I played
with the child of the Virgin.

Mom, sell the cart
and I’ll take you with me.
Even if I don’t go to Rocío,
it’s not water under the bridge
even if I go with you.
That cart at my place
isn't in the way or taking up space.

Isn't in the way or taking up space.
The oxen that pulled it
chewed under the pines,
and I remember that in their shade
you played on the sides of the road.

My little heart raced
to the beat of the drums.
A salve was the lullaby
to the beat of the drums.
In my dreams, I played
with the child of the Virgin.

Mom, I want to help you
clean the attic.
And climbing the stairs
I saw the reflection of a flame,
I asked what it was,
it was the lamp that lit up
your Rocío face.

Your Rocío face.
How many memories were kept
in that wooden box:
the cap, the lamp,
that blanket, the boots, and the cart.

My little heart raced
to the beat of the drums.
A salve was the lullaby
to the beat of the drums.
In my dreams, I played
with the child of the Virgin.