✕
Ten decimas of salute to the Argentinian People
There in my fields there is people
Called "don't forget me";
Whoever knows them should keep
Their memory as a gemstone,
Because there are oblivions that burn
And there are memories that make things big,
Things that don't seem like it
Like the floating ice floe,
Underneath they are giants
Submerged and shaking.
My people is a calm sea
Under a stormy sky:
In its slow life beat
The rackets of the thunder.
It could conceive in its breast
The old days warriors
And when the time comes,
Tomorrow will be able also
To nail by its will
A thousand stars in the dawn
There's no rushless thing
Like a people making history
They're not seduced by the glory
Neither imagine the future
They walk with sure step,
Calculating every step
And what it seems backwardness
Soon uses to transform
Into things that for the fool
Are cause of his failure
My people isn't argentinian,
Neither paraguayan, nor southern;
They're called "eastern people"
Because of it's destiny.
But it walks the road
Of its loved brothers,
The one of so many humilliated,
The one of Latin America,
The blood whose veins
Also beat in it's side.
My people wasn't absent
Even less with the back turned
On the tragic and bitter
History of the continent.
We were a balcony facing
A ruined tenant house
-The one of Latin America
Frustrated in bad loves-,
Harvesting some flowers
Between Brazil and Argentina.
But didn't last long
The flowers in the balcony,
The quarrelsome and his reckless
Ambition, cut them down.
And were the same hands
That ruined the orchard,
And finished it,
The ones that today show, greedfully,
Instead of a bouquet of roses
Some paper flowers.
There's always the stupid
Nostalgic of the garden,
But among everyone the mean
Is the one who brought the thief;
He has no forgiveness:
If they protect their profits,
Decency and ignorance
Of the people are his love;
He can't find better reasons
To buy another estate.
Than one, is not eastern,
Neither gringo, neither brazilian;
His passion is money
Because he's multinational.
Universal liar
Since Hernandarias came,
He thinks of his bank accounts
Weighting the poets
Who make with foolish receipts
Lavish songs.
So, there won't be a way
We don't walk together.
We deal the same issue
Easterns and Argentinians,
Ecuatorians, Fuegians
Venezuelans, Cusquenians;
White, black and indians
Forged in the work,
We were born from the same segment
Of the tree of our dreams.
And now receive, sirs,
A brotherly salute;
My eastern people say:
Better times will come.
Cifra of our loves
Homeland poncho in the scare
About my people and their sorrows
I can't talk about,
I just meant to give you
Their heart with my song.
Diazepan Medina✕
Alfredo Zitarrosa: 상위 3
| 1. | El Violín de Becho |
| 2. | Doña Soledad |
| 3. | Stefanie |
Idioms from "Diez Décimas de ..."
| 1. | Ni mucho menos |
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