Negrita Martina

Listen, little black Martina,
the small verse that the king will leave
and put a little speck on the pillow,
because you are tired of waiting so much.

Your mother is at the stream
washing the clothes of Miss Leonor.
Your father has returned tired:
he didn't sell a duster, he brought a flower.

Martina, Melchor already knows:
'You don't eat roses; you need bread.'
Wise king of the poor children
didn't bring you flour, just a song.

Embrace, little black Martina,
the small verse that the king left you
and put a little speck on the pillow,
because you are tired of waiting so much.