La Señora Mercedes

The trough where the proletarian woman washes,
with a clear and moist voice she sings to me from the water,
running through the veins of the woman of the people,
she breaks chains and builds dreams.
The trough where you wash, hardened woman,
in very few words she tells me about life,
about my poor shirt, my worker's overalls,
the humble apron, my sister Lucero.
She doesn't tell me about sorrows because the old saint,
always washed, singing, with infinite hope,
Mrs. Mercedes, the neighbors tell me,
always walked firmly on the hard path.
Mrs. Mercedes, unknown woman,
for many of you she is the daily bread,
the frozen nights, the tablecloth on the table,
the curved back over the old trough.
If you want, comrade, to learn about life,
to know new songs, to understand joys,
Mrs. Mercedes will be there for you
in all the humble women of the country.
Mrs. Mercedes will be there for you,
in all the humble women of the country.