In the valley of Pocuno
Where the wind ricochets off the sea
Where the rain bred the mosses
Angelita Huenumán lives.
Between the evergreen and roble beech trees
the hazelnut and pitrán trees
among the aroma of the chilca trees
Angelita Huenumán lives.
Cared for by five dogs
a son whom love abandoned
simple as her small farm
the world spins around her.
The red blood of the bell flower
runs in her Huenumán veins
beside the light of a window
Angelita weaves her life.
Her hands dance on the thread
like the wings of the chincol bird
it is a miracle how she weaves
even the aroma of the flower.
In your looms, Angelita,
there are time, tears, and sweat
they are in the ignored hands
of this, my founding people.
After months of work
the blanket seeks a buyer
and like a caged bird
it sings for the highest bidder.