Sufrida tierra

My suffering land
Relic of the poor
A devil of ashes
Baptize your stoves

From Sabagasta to the north
They shake the vineyards
Sleepwalking spells
Of old pray-dances

Your native heart
It raises dust
To scare away sorrows
From hunger and misery

The crespines sob
As if praying to heaven
May he never kneel
My people from Santiago

When the river dawns
Kissing saltpeter
My payment is a mirror
Of ancestral struggles

Wind-colored monkeys
Bury the stars
To look at the soul
Of our dead race

The mountain is hopeful
Painting their pains
Even if the man knocks him down
They will sow their flowers