La Zafrera
Mercedes Sosa
The Harvest
The sun wakes up in the sugarcane
the frost of the plantation,
and in the sweet dew of the water
the wind comes down to sing,
when the harvest worker's arm
topples the dark taste of the workday.
The day ignites in the cane
the green of my Tucumán,
and in the air of a wandering whistle
the morning goes away
to play with the monkey
that I left waiting there in Famaillá.
When the harvest moon
burns in the tents from dreaming so much,
it will rise through the blood of a scream
its drum to beat,
so that the bitter molasses of the sugarcane
becomes hope.
The metal light of the machete
singing through the stalks,
and in the dull crunch of the cart
a thrush agonizes,
when it releases the road
its thirsty tongue for the sandy soil.
The dark afternoon of sugar
is already fading in the orange grove,
and in the fruity shadow of the aroma
my Tucumán dreams
because inside its night,
I start singing my harvest of zamba.
