Pájaro de rodilla

Singer who sings is a bird
little chest of seeds
canting in the tavern
or with a sick voice
he doesn't sing on his knees

You can see him flapping
his yellow wings
eyes closed
and tired heart
but never on his knees
but never on his knees

The little bird can't
stand on his perch
or on the highest branch
or on the humble grass
kneel down

I speak of the little bird
and his little song
that may be born true
that may be born dead
but not on his knees
but not on his knees

There's no true song
or song so simple
that the bird, when singing it
to give it more
puts it on its knees

And I don't defend the song
but the little bird
of paper that makes a trill
tomorrow a mistake
but never on his knees
but never on his knees

And he who sings to the tyrant
is neither bird nor anything
he's a reptile from the swamp
clucking for the master
on bended knee

Singer who sings is a bird
little chest of seeds
canting in the tavern
or with a sick voice
he doesn't sing on his knees
he doesn't sing on his knees