El Niño Yuntero

Born as a yoke of meat
More humiliated than beautiful
With the neck pursued
By the yoke for the neck.

He starts to live and starts
To die from end to end
Lifting the bark
Of his mother with the team.

He doesn't know how to count his years
And already knows that sweat
Is a heavy crown
Of salt for the farmer.

This hungry child hurts me
Like a grandiose thorn
And his ashy life
Stirs my soul of holm oak.

He doesn't know how to count his years
And already knows that sweat
Is a heavy crown
Of salt for the farmer.

Who will save this little boy
Smaller than a grain of oats,
Where will come the hammer
Executioner of this chain.

Let it come from the heart
Of the working men
Who before being men are
And have been young ox drivers.