Oh world! The black Juana,
what a hand she was dealt!
Her little baby died,
yes sir.
Oh, my soul mate,
oh, soul mate,
So good was the black child,
since she was consuming
she compared him to her body,
he was getting thinner
as she herself was.
Her little black baby died,
Oh, her black baby,
God would be ready for him,
He may already have a place for him
as a little angel from heaven.
- Wise up my friend,
there are no little black angels.
Painter of alcove saints,
Oh, alcove saints,
if you have blood in your heart,
why when you paint your pictures
you don't remember black people?
Then where do they go,
the little brown-skinned kids of my village?
Painter born in my country,
hear in my country,
with a foreign paintbrush,
a painter who follows the course
of so many old painters
even though the Virgin is white,
paint me little black angels.
Is there no painter who would paint,
oh, who would paint
little angels from my village?
I want little white angels
with little brown-skinned angels,
An angel from a good family
is not enough for my heaven.
f there is a painter of saints,
hear of saints,
if there is a painter of skies,
make the heaven of my land
with the hues of my people;
with their high class angel
with their low class angel
With their little brown-skinned angels,
oh, brown-skinned angels,
with their little white angels,
with their little Indian angels,
with their little black angels,
they can go eating mangoes
throughout the neighbourhoods of heaven.
If you know how to paint your country,
hear, your country,
If you have to paint your sky,
like the sun that tans whites,
like the sun that sweats blacks,
even though the Virgin is white,
paint me little black angels.