La Buena Moza

On top of the hill
is the good maiden,
with a flower of snow and salt,
watching her loneliness pass by.
Poor the good maiden:
she walks sadly through the hill!
The night wind
asks for her name.
Only the cypress knew her
or some shepherd who never returned.
Only the streams and the flowers
know her name.
Poor the good maiden:
alone with her silence!
She has a pain full of love,
that the wind has left her
and in the hills a hope
is turning into a memory.
The river from the mountain
that sweetly sings,
in its non-stop flow,
sees her cry from loneliness.
The river silences its song
and goes away very slowly.
A dawn sun
with flights of turtledoves,
through the cornfield they must bring
the one who left with his love.
Flowers from the ravine,
the sun brings over the water.
Poor the good maiden:
alone with her silence!
She has a pain full of love,
that the wind has left her
and in the hills a hope
is turning into a memory.