Zambita de Los Pobres

When Sunday comes,
Down to the village I go
And my ranch stays behind,
As if saying: 'how lonely I am'.

Under a carob tree,
I hear this zambita being sung
And the strumming seems
To say to me: 'come, dance'.

Zambita of the poor,
Flower of the valleys, light of friendship:
Your song is sweet,
On the Sundays of Tucumán.

Darling of the hill,
My good country girl, where are you?
Today I sing to you the zamba
Of your Sundays, my little dove.

Wrapped in fog,
You were the road to the city.
My zambita awaits you,
Lovely country girl: 'come, dance'.