Indio

People call me Indigenous
And for me it's an honor
I'm also compliant, popular, and playful

I like to live my life according to the situation
I don't tolerate injustice because it causes me pain
It must be because in my body I only have a heart

I carry the blood of the chief
The one who didn't yield
The one who lost his lands
But did not resign
Fighting until death
With nobility and valor

People call me Indigenous
There's a reason for it
Creole from the hot land
A servant of my people
My mother a beautiful Indigenous woman, my father of good color
Four siblings with cinnamon skin
And me, the youngest
Of the same descent and the same religion

The countryside where we were born
Filled us with love
Its flowers, its butterflies, its fragrance, and its color
Details that, being humble, do not wither in the sun

People call me Indigenous
Romantic and troubadour
A muse that passes by smiling, sweetening a song

But if they understood
That being Indigenous is my passion
That my angel is primitive and my chest is wild
They would tie down my essence as if it were a wild horse

Indigenous for being born
Indigenous for being who I am
Clever as the palm tree
Braver than the cactus
And pride for a race that had no condition