Si Mi Guitarra Canta Como Canta

If my guitar sings as it sings
And my throat sounds like in mourning
It's because I'm Latin American
And I see Christ, daily, crucified

And I have seen Christ, daily, crucified
You have to see a worker return home
Without bread for his children and defeated
After having searched in vain for a job
Or working in exchange for a low wage
Without bread for his children and defeated

You have to see how those little children look
Sad, unprotected, as if frightened
Hungry and pushed into ignorance
By the fierce arrogance of those in power
Hungry and pushed into ignorance

Sometimes, I feel sorry for taking from my guitar
Sometimes, I feel sorry for taking from my guitar
Things that my poor soul whispers to me in silence
But I, what fault do I have for seeing, for seeing the things that happen?
But I, what fault do I have for seeing, for seeing the things that happen?

I am a singer of the people without much flight
But, for being of the people, I know what I want
I sing to the simple and humble people
And I hate, as one should, the oligarchy
And I hate, as one should, the oligarchy

I am a singer of the people without much flight
But, for being of the people, I know what I want
I thank heaven for the gift
Of knowing who Christ is and who the devil is
Of knowing who Christ is and who the devil is

If my guitar sings as it sings
And my throat sounds like in mourning
It's because I'm Latin American
And I see Christ, daily, crucified
And I have seen Christ, daily, crucified