El Guillatún

Millelche. is sad with the storm
The wheat lies down in that muddy place
The Indians resolve after crying
Talking to Isidro, to God and Saint John

The machi walks to the Guillatún
Chamal and revoso, trailonco and kultrún
And even the sick from her machitún
Increase the rows of that Guillatún

The rain that falls and falls again
The Indians look at it without knowing what to do
They pull out their hair, they break their feet
Because the crops are going to be lost

The Indians gather in a big yard
With the instruments they break into song
The machi repeats the word sun
And the echo of the field raises her voice

The king of the skies listened very well
He rides the winds to another region
He scattered the clouds then lay down
The Indians cover it with a prayer

Above is the bright blue sky
Below the tribe to the sound of the kultrún
Offers it the first almud of wheat
Through the mouth of a bird called ostrich

The scent of meat and muday is felt
Cinnamon, orange, quillay bark
The party ends with the dawn
They kept the song, the dance, and the bread