From early in the morning, the girl prays
That her day won't be so long
And with the light of daybreak,
She gets herself ready for the day's work.
She closes her eyes so that she won't see herself,
For the mirror reveals
That her work is bringing about her ruin
And her saint is not paying attention,
Every day, every minute he is resting
On that foam of her miseries,
Fingernails and flesh, sweat and effort,
All of her persistence, every one of her dreams
Gone away but remaining somehow in her recollections
And in the memory of her yearnings.
Ay! Black tresses, sad little face, Rosa María,
You live your days and nights looking for an escape.
Come Sunday this hell of yours might open into your happiness.
May the maquiladora one day be only a memory
And may the harvest one day be your own.
One day it will come to pass.
May your bosses one day be redeemed
And may humility one day be restored to pride
And may you one day be recognized as equal to the others.
One day it will come to pass.