Walking with languid laziness, the memory of the path appears
The country work is done in the hour that Angelus prays
The sadness that appears in the evening horizon shines in your eyes
You tell me of your dull destiny, and bow your head down in resignation
Singing a song as a complaint behind the trees leaning on its vine branch
Your painful figure is lost but the race sobs in the mournful notes of the vine

Translation by Maximiliano Fernández Escalona