Diaguitas

They were the Calchaquí fruits
of fierce sweat
your feet went to the desert
and sowed the flower of love.

Potter's clay hand
that polished the raw earth
and from the molle tree came the wine
to intoxicate your pains.

Your charm lived on sweat
and melted into the landscape
the eternal Indian Diaguita
endured in the pebbles.

Its bronze earth color
does not die, like the sun
in the endless night
that will die someday.

It's the night of men
that torments the beauty
of American sap.
It's the night of men
that torments the beauty