El Indio Muerto

The sky is in mourning
with a dull poncho of clouds
the day died in the distance
they are watching over it with redness.

The hills echo
the song of the chilicote
lost among the weeds
chanting sad prayers.

The Indian poet has died
the erkes keep silence
and in the streams of Anta
the willows cry for his death.

The day comes slowly
pink clouds await it
to tell it about the mourning
that overwhelms the deep valleys.

Indian of the sad whistle
your song is held by the mountain
at night it will give it to the wind
to carry it through the air.