La Oriunda
Los Chalchaleros
The Native
Through the Calchaquí valleys
I set my fate in motion,
from Tucumán to Salta
God hasn't forgotten anything.
Up the hill
I climb
until El Mollar.
Whoever mentions Tafí del Valle
mentions Tucumán
summers of horseback riding
early morning bonfires.
Chango singer,
may your voice
never fade away.
No one escapes Cafayate
where the sun lives,
February serenades
under a silver moon.
Grapes and sweat
you are harmonizing,
vintner.
If I step on a cloud floor
I let myself be carried away
like a bird without a nest
through the Bishop's Slope.
There's nothing like it,
in the valleys
I must stay.
I made a stop on the road
because in Pucará
my ancestors settled
to give life to that land.
Blue sky
lonely gray
and rocky ground.
Weaving looms like no other
in Seclantas
with their artisan ponchos
which are the pride of the land.
And its color
the ink of
tradition.
Payogasta is a thorn
in my heart,
if with the Ruiz de los Llanos
and with my cousin siblings
I could be,
and in Cachi find myself
again.
You are a native chacarera,
may your voice be heard
from Molinos to San Carlos
from La Poma to Angastaco.
The valleys will always be
my favorite place.
