She's 106 years old and her hair is snow white
She has a black dress and black wood earrings
Her hard body gave birth to fifteen children
and she breastfeeded thirteen of the same breast.
The war took three, they got lost in the mountains.
The homeland took them, sang the mailman with victorious air.
She spent five days without seeing the sky.
Her condemn was always, always the silence.
She had a miner son and a bloody evening
they brought him covereed in blood and mud.
With the calm pace she went up to the black well
and when she reached the door she lost her look and spit at the floor
with a frown she went down to the town
and spent five days without seeing the sky.
Her eyes get sweeter when she remembers her first kiss,
when she wore dress for the first time for the first grandson baptism
and the newlywed trip and her fear
of going to the bedroom with her man.
He got tired one day of being awake
when the field was showing its new mantle.
She has a poet son, a carpenter and three at Mexico
other two in the mine, a friar and the youngest,
who always was very handsome and pluperfect,
today he's a tender greenhouse flower.
She shelters all of them under her cape
and remembers their names and their birthdays.