La leñera
Ángel Parra
The Woodpile
Bronzed Indian from the storms,
so hurt by the pain.
Faithful companion of the ravines,
daughter of the hill, limping Indian.
And ahead go the little donkeys,
sad, quiet, they keep moving on.
Every now and then you hear the crack
of the woodpile that follows behind.
To the mountains, peaks, and trails,
they only know how to tread.
Beaten down by poverty,
their fate is to herd and herd.
