In my country, what a grief,
poverty and resentment.
My father says that soon will come
from the bottom of time another time,
and he says that the sun will shine
over a people he dreams
working their green plot.
In my country, what a grief,
poverty and resentment.
You didn't ask for war,
mother earth, I know.
My father says one single traitor
can beat a thousand brave men;
he feels that the people in their immense pain
today refuses to drink clear
fountain of honor.
You didn't ask for war,
mother earth, I know.
In my country we're tough,
the future will tell it.
My people sing a peace song.
Behind every door,
my people is aware,
and nobody will be able
to silence their song,
and tomorrow they'll sing too.
In my country we're tough,
the future will tell it.
In my country, what a warmth
when it begins to get light.
My people say they can read
the fate in their worker hand,
and that there's no fortune-teller or king
that can show them the way
they will walk.
In my country, what a warmth
when it begins to get light.
(In my country we're thousands and thousands
of tears and rifles,
a fist and a lively song,
a burning flame, a giant
screaming: Forward...Forward...!)
In my country will shine,
I know,
the sun of the people will burn
again, illuminating my land.