Un Madrigal
Miguel Aceves Mejía
A Madrigal
How beautiful is the morning sun
on the return from the capital;
oh, how lovely my mountain girl looks
when she's running through the wheat field.
You can already see the ravine and the bridge
and my dog comes to meet me;
the sowing is left pending
because the oxen no longer want to pull.
The smoke from my little hut
spreads throughout the wheat field
and in the background you can see the stream
that usually lulls me to sleep every afternoon.
