El Indio Muerto

The sky is in mourning
With a dull poncho of clouds
The day died in the distance
It is being mourned by red glows.

The hills echo
The song of the chilicote
Lost among the weeds
Singing sad prayers.

Chorus
The Indian poet has died
The erkes are silent
And in the old streams
The willows cry for his death.

The day comes slowly
Pink clouds await it
To tell it about the mourning
That overwhelms the deep valleys.

Indian of the sad whistle
Your song is in the mountains
At night it will give it to the wind
So it can carry it through the air.

Chorus