Como Pájaros En El Aire

My mother's hands
Look like birds in the air
Kitchen stories
Between her wings, wounded by hunger

My mother's hands
Know what happens in the mornings
When they knead life
Clay oven, bread of hope

My mother's hands
Come to the yard early
Everything turns into a celebration
When they fly with other birds
With the birds that love life
And build it with their work
The firewood burns, flour and clay
The everyday becomes magical
It becomes magical, oh-oh, oh

My mother's hands
Represent an open sky
And a cherished memory
Warm rags in the winters

They offer warmth
Noble, sincere, clean of all
What will the hands be like
Of the one who moves them with hate?

My mother's hands
Come to the yard early
Everything turns into a celebration
When they fly with other birds
With the birds that love life
And build it with their work
The firewood burns, flour and clay
The everyday becomes magical
It becomes magical, oh-oh, oh

La-ra-ra, la-ra-ra
La-ra-ra, la-ra-ra
La-ra-ra, la-ra-ra-ra
Eh, eh-eh-eh