Alforja Campesina Pinolera

Peasant pinolero saddlebag,
You are the true scapular of my land,
When you come from the village well loaded
You look like a pregnant indigenous woman.

Peasant proletarian saddlebag,
Smelling of new wheat and creek,
And I love you for being the daughter of my arm
And the little sister of the calabash.

They say that in the chilamate
Juan camenate died,
The pocoyos always sing
Where the campisto fell.
The August festival is coming,
The chinamos are already up,
The red rooster sharpens the knife
That I bought from Don Casimiro.

Peasant pinolero saddlebag,
You are the true scapular of my land,
When you come from the village well loaded
You look like a pregnant indigenous woman.

Peasant proletarian saddlebag,
Smelling of new wheat and creek,
And I love you for being the daughter of my arm
And the little sister of the calabash.

My bride, in this brooch
A gift for you,
A sacuanjoche flower
That I picked on the coyol hill.

I offer you in this round
My inflamed heart,
Which is a round thing
Full of illusion.

Peasant pinolero saddlebag.