Polo margariteño

Up there on that hill
where the tingo-tingo calls
the hens peck corn,
the dogs suck on a pipe.

I was a sailor who on an island
fell in love with a culisa
and on a very breezy night
I stole her in my boat.

The imprisoned heron doesn't sing
as it used to, singing in the space
above the sleeping sea.
Its song among chains
is a song of agony
why do you insist, then, Lord,
to prolong its song?

Finally, I return once more, beloved home,
far from you how unhappy I was,
what I can suffer, I have suffered,
what I can cry, I have cried.