Rio de Los Pajaros

Uruguay is not a river
It's a blue sky traveling
Painter of water paths
With a taste of rural honeys

The loves of the coast
Are loves without destiny
Floating islands of hope
That the river takes away

Chua, chua, chua
Chua, chua, chua
Don't sing anymore, little turtledove
The ceiba tree cries blood

Dark-skinned washerwoman
Little heron of the coast
Roll up your skirt
Start washing the clothes

Your mother cooks jerky
Your father went upriver
And you stayed alone
Washing clothes on the shore
Chua, chua, chua