La Zafrera
Mercedes Sosa
The Sugar Harvest
The sun rises on the harvest
The frost of the sugarcane field
And in the sweet dew of the water
The wind comes down to sing
When the harvester's arm
Brings down the dark taste of the day’s work
The day ignites in the cane
The green of my Tucumán
And in the air of a wandering whistle
The morning slips away
To play with the kid
I left waiting back in Famaillá
When the harvest moon
Burns in the tents from dreaming so much
It will rise through the blood of a shout
Its drum starts to pound
So that hope can be born
From the bitter syrup of the sugarcane field
The metal light of the machete
Sings as it goes through the stalks
And in the dull creak of the cart
A thrush gasps its last
When it hits the road
Its thirsty tongue drags through the sand
The dark afternoon of sugar
Is already fading in the orange grove
And in the fruity shade of the acacia
My Tucumán dreams
Because inside it’s night
I start to sing my harvest of zamba
