Arroyo, Ropa Y Espuma

The stream bends right in front of a gate,
Several wires stretched out and the sun burns the rooftops,
A woman bending over the board, taking a nap,
The stream washes away with the foam of the laundry,
And I see her pass by, water flowing down the hill.

As a kid, I filled my curious, innocent eyes,
With a bent back and tired steps heading to the stream,
And as a kid, I understood that the poor are like thorns,
They cling to life even if it's in the stream,
Romantic for the poet, silent for the poor.

A big bundle of clothes, a heavy sorrow of the soul,
That doesn’t let me find peace when I see her during the siesta,
White-haired at the temples, carrying clothes to the center,
A dark fate in the neighborhood because winter is harsh,
Washing clothes for others, even if she can’t afford her own.

If you get close to the stream, brother, look at the foam,
Made by tired hands as white as the foam,
Herons flying far above the thicket,
Curious about the weariness because it’s all their fortune,
Sweat and a wet belly, stream, clothes, and foam.

Sweat and a wet belly, stream, clothes, and foam.