Vallecito

Little valley of Huaco where I was born
shadows of the strong grandfather who has already gone;
to your old mill I want to return
today that I tasted the bitterness of life.

Far from you
from my longing,
poor me,
I spend my time crying absences,
I spend my time crying absences.

Spoken
When the fatigue of my lost efforts bends me
I will return to the shade of your old groves,
to the freshness of your eaves, to the peace of your fields,
to the gold of your sunset when the afternoon extends
its agony among the hills, to the hearth of your shepherds
aged by winter, among bell chimes
and laments of vihuelas with the sigh of the tunes
and in silent meekness as if falling asleep,
I want to die smiling under the light of your sky.
Perhaps my eyes will close
by the merciful thin hands
of some old Huaco woman... in a black poor shawl
and ancient Christian creed.

I sing to you, Little Valley, to remember
your green alfalfa fields, my blooming orchard
the gold of your wheat, the spring
and the distant star that reflected.

Far from you
from my longing,
poor me,
I spend my time crying absences,
I spend my time crying absences.