Rosa Colorada
Los Huasos Quincheros
Red Rose
The path is tightening,
to the belly of the sands,
so goes my heart,
snaking among the sorrows.
The dull beating,
of the mules' hooves,
crowds into my heart,
with a ringing of bitterness.
(RED ROSE,
WHO PLUCKED YOU?) (Bis)
(WHY DIDN'T YOU WAIT, MY LIFE,
FOR ME TO ARRIVE?). (Bis)
Music.
The long line of mules,
dusty and tired,
spills onto the green,
heart of the ravine.
The town looks like a cluster,
of frosted vicuñas,
and the smoke from the stoves,
rising in the early morning.
(RED ROSE,
WHO PLUCKED YOU?) (Bis)
(WHY DIDN'T YOU WAIT, MY LIFE,
FOR ME TO ARRIVE?). (Bis)
(What good is it for the mule driver,
to reach the end of the path,
if he won't find in it,
joy or solace.
His solace is in the herd,
with its eternal walk,
and the creaking of the harnesses,
singing in the solitude.)
