Sandy, sandy is
my home of Cafayate.
The wine made there makes one
sleepy and forgetful of sorrows.
Water from the Calchaquí River,
father of all the crops,
when people go away and don't come back,
people cry in their singing and have no dreams.
Sand, little sand; sand, cover my footsteps,
so that I may meet my love again
during the time of the wine harvest.
Moon of the marshes,
little moon over Cafayate.
Moon of brown sand,
of carnivals in absence.
Let me drink in your wine
the sap from Cafayate,
so that I can get lost in the cueca music,
singing some before I die.
Sand, little sand; sand, cover my footsteps,
so that I may meet my love again
during the time of the wine harvest.