Como Pajaros En El Aire

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

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

My mother's hands
Arrive in the courtyard early
Everything turns into a party
When she plays with other birds
With the birds
Who love life
And build it with their work

Wood, flour, and clay burn
The everyday becomes magical
It becomes magical, oh-oh

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

They offer themselves warmly
Noble, sincere, clean of everything
How will be the hands
Of the one who moves them
Thanks to hatred?

My mother's hands
Arrive in the courtyard early
Everything turns into a party
When they play with other birds
With the birds
Who love life
And build it with their work

Wood, flour, and clay burn
The everyday becomes magical
It becomes magical