La Añoradora

Like a little weed that dies if it doesn't grow
in the salt flats. Oh, who could
become the elf or the Salamanca,
be the soul of the verses, folk songs, and ballads.

Walking through the carnivals
and the jumialeras paths,
when the siestas fade
partying in the trenches.

God willing when I die
an old violinist
plays me folk songs
from my homeland Salavinero.

Oh, my dear, how much sorrow
for not seeing my countrymen,
the socoy stayed with them
and will be waiting for me there.

Longing for my homeland
what wouldn't I give to return,
if all I have left
are my yearnings.

There's nothing like going to Salavina
to dance the chacarera.
The old quichuistas say
the trunca is not for everyone.