Pobrecita De La Deolina

They say she died of thirst,
searching for carob pods,
his pup followed her,
nursing on shadows,
his pup followed her,
nursing on shadows.

Poor Deolina,
how bitter was her fate,
the muleteers found her,
resting on the road,
the muleteers found her,
resting on the road.

A wooden leg keeps watch,
the little fence guards her,
and for all the locals,
the deceased is a saint,
and for all the locals,
the deceased is a saint.

The homeland goddess gallops
through spears and thorns,
and beyond La Rioja,
the rebels were roaring,
there's no traveler on the path,
who doesn't seek some comfort,
from the late Correa,
patroness of the muleteers.

Poor Deolina,
how bitter was her fate,
the muleteers found her,
resting on the road,
the muleteers found her,
resting on the road,
resting on the road.