La Copla Triste

The heart of the wounded guitarist man
Is facing towards tears on the path of sick wine
Blood of a sad ballad, silent time without time

The skin of his guitar, female fir breasts
Strung with children unfolds the silences
If he caresses his fingers firmly with flesh

And he dreams verses as if bleeding life
And with violated peace of his empty hands
He goes out to seek the blood of his hidden homeland

And he goes through the workshops cutting himself inside
With the fire of hunger from the root to the center
Of his woman pregnant with bitter disagreements

He must be a poet with a thousand beats less
With a thousand wilted words when winter comes
Drying up the children and the garden leaves

But he won't fall because of that secret Sun
That our farmers cultivate proudly
Backlit by hatred in the iron pot

This tired horse that goes through the deserts
Driving our blood with a blind destiny
Knows there's a path with open arms

And he goes through the workshops cutting himself inside
With the fire of hunger from the root to the center
Of his woman pregnant with bitter disagreements