Atrás Queda El Pueblo

With an old sack, two sad coins, and a prayer on my lips
I left one morning with the eyes of a child, arms wide open.
The town falls behind, the dark-haired girl, and the shattered dreams
Ahead are roads, uncertain paths, bitter trails.
Old Francisco shares his wisdom, reaching out his hand,
Father Felipe blesses my forehead, and I kiss his hand.
Bells are ringing, the ladies are already moving their lips
They promised to watch over my path, praying their rosaries.
There’s a silence broken by the cries of a child weeping
And everyone from the poor to the mayor shakes my hand.
Grandma sobs, Grandpa stands tall, his lips trembling
The train has left, and the smoke wraps around my distant town.