Sufrida tierra
Mercedes Sosa
Suffering land
My suffering land,
relic of the poor
a devil of ashes
baptizes your hearths
From Sabagasta to the north,
the vineyards shake
sleepwalking spells
of old prayer-dances
Your native heart
raises dust clouds,
to scare away the sorrows
of hunger and misery
The thistles sob,
almost begging the sky
that my Santiago people
never kneel down
When the river shines by moonlight
kissing salt flats,
my homeland is a mirror
of ancestral struggles
Wind-colored changos,
bury the stars,
to see the soul
of our dead race
The forest hopes,
painting its pains,
even if man knocks it down,
its flowers will sow
