Zampoña queja del indio

Tell me if the wind caught you
buried in depths
if you are the complaint of time
branch of cane fields.

you look like an Indian hand
bound to awakenings
like a line of sighs
tubing the solitudes.

Panpipe complaint of the native
fragile troop of songs
you are a lover of the wind
daughter of cane fields...

who emits your sound
will know my landscapes
the north tied in your body
fierceness of solitudes.