Canción Para Las Manos de Un Soldado

The farmer of my town
Carries a hoe in his hand
How big his hands are
The farmer of my town
Digging from sunup to sundown
With rain, snow, or heat
The unemployed of my town
Fills his hands with anguish
How sad his hands are
The unemployed of my town
Turning the waterwheel
Without pay and without a story
The mayor of my town
Carries a cane in his hands
How delicate his hands are
The mayor of my town
With his proud cane
Presides over the procession
The worker of my town
Is not in my town
He has emigrated
His hands knead bread
For other distant towns
How far away are the hands
Of the worker of my town
The soldier of my town
Was once a bricklayer
Now he no longer has a shovel
He carries a rifle in his hand
How cold his hands are
Around the rifle
The boss of my town
Doesn't live there either
With the sweat of my town
He bought a flat in Madrid
With what his hand throws away
How many could live
Soldier, if someday
The farmer of my town
Rises up, and the worker
Rises up, and the unemployed
What will you do, soldier
Who was once a bricklayer?
What will you do with your hands
And your rifle