La Pájara Pinta

I am the Painted Bird,
widow of the Painted Bird.
My husband was very cheerful
and a hunter killed him
with a little green shotgun
on Saint Borombón's day.

A bullet killed his song
-and his song was so beautiful-,
the second one killed his flight,
and the third one his heart.

Oh, oh the little green shotgun,
oh oh my husband Pintón.

If they get sad hearing me
I ask everyone for forgiveness.
I can no longer sing happily
not even sitting on the lemon
like before when with my beak
I cut the branch and the flower.

I am the Painted Bird,
if someone asks where I am
they will say they saw me alone
and sitting in a corner
crying with melancholy
because of that hunter.

To the one who kills little birds
a black ice bullet will sprout
in the heart
and a whirlwind of pain.

Oh, oh the little green shotgun,
oh oh my husband Pintón.