When I went to the Pampa
I carried my heart
happily like a chirigüe,
but there it died.
First, I lost my feathers,
then I lost my voice.
And above, the sun was burning.
When I saw the miners' room from within,
I told myself: "The snail lives better
in its shell,
or the refined thief in the shadow of the laws.".
And above, the sun was burning.
The rows of hovels
in front of each other, yes, sir;
the rows of women
in front of the only basin,
each one with her bucket
and with her face full of sorrow.
And above, the sun was burning.
We went to the local store
to buy our share,
twenty articles don't count
the strict discount.
With an empty basket
we returned to the pension.
And above, the sun was burning.
"Dry zone of the Pampa"
I read on a sign.
However, the bottles of liquor come and go.
Of course, they don't belong to the poor,
they're contraband or something like that.
And above, the sun was burning.
I pass by a dead village
my heart gets clouded,
even though there live people there,
death is much bigger.
They buried justice
They buried reason
And above, the sun was burning.
If someone says that I dream of
stories of praise,
I say it happens in Chuqui,
but in Santa Juana it's worse.
The miner doesn't know anymore
what his pain is worth.
And above, the sun was burning.
I returned to Santiago
without understanding the colour
in which they paint the news
when the poor says no.
Below, dark night
gold, saltpetre and coal.
And above, the sun was burning.