Más temprano que tarde

I speak to you about a land
far and generous
where the mountain range,
luminous profile,
greets the travelers
who are so welcome
that they will forget
the time
to arrive and leave.

Looking at the calendar
I see parks and flowers,
I see people in the streets,
from work to march
trucks dressed
for the neighborhoods
with smiling vegetables,
with gifts from the sea.

Chile, I would like to sing you a happy song.
Look at what they have made of you, my country.

There must be a sky
that turns into arms
to make this story
a happy one,
in arms that dare
to avenge the pains
of bodies that walk
without speaking, without laughing.

Three years are a thousand days
of love and trust,
the hand on the plow
tilling the future.
Beyond the Andes,
sooner rather than later
it will return to the Alameda
to sing for you.