Los Parientes

Singing is a lovely delight
Much better with a guitar,
Who avoids the revelry
Leaves as if by oil.
Without tricks and without adornments
The singer can arrive,
Singing to the good dawn
Like the little chincolito
Or singing to the little angel
Like the virgin lady.

That's what I come for, my sirs,
To sing songs filled
With verses so delicate
Like perfect beauties.
Here they will show pains,
There they will ask for changes
Full of faith and hopes
Of our bitter evils.
Fatal among the fateful
I will continue these wanderings.

I will start from the beginning
Without missing any detail,
I hope I won't fail
What I intend to tell you.
Maybe I won't convince
With my poor inspiration.
The description begins
Without coils and without deceit
Receding some years
And moving to the big house.

Instruments are already playing
And I will say with great style
Gentlemen, excuse me
Here I present my grandfather:

José Calixto his name
Was quite respected
Friendly and well-read
His talent amazed them.
But I increased his renown
By deciding very soon
No more between Tuesday and Thursday
He tries to show his honor
Defending the tricolor
Of the year seventy-nine.

In the city of Chillán
He lived in a big house
Owner of a population
Of great popularity.
For higher authority
He sends his son to school
And at my grandmother's request
He will teach him solfeggio
To form an orchestra
Of harp, violin, and vihuela.

You see my grandfather José
With music in mind
And who was more prudent
Like my other grandfather was:

My grandfather on my mother's side
Was a major tenant
Foreman and caretaker
Almost like the air.
The rich man with his grace
Had him obliged
Mounted stableman
Of vintner and roundsman,
Pruner in the garden
And forced vegetable grower.

At first sight
My lovely grandfather seems
Like an archangel from heaven
Twin of a John the Baptist.
His little pupils are blue,
His hair golden,
Mounted on his bay mare
There's no girl who doesn't look at him
Nor old woman who doesn't sigh
For my grandmother's little corner.

I start to think for a while
And my grandparents appear
I wish I could spell out here
Clearly their portraits:

My grandfather was very literary
He studied to be a teacher
And he reached the schools
To teach his dictionary.
My mom was born like a canary
In a flowery field
Like a thrush she chirped
She grew up among the candlestick
She knew what threshing is
The milling, the kneading