♪
Suave y lenta bajo el sol ♪
♪ Abre fuego,
viva voz,
quien no se pudo callar,
grita
hermana libertad.
Ah, ah, ah.
Ah,
ah, ah.
Ah, ah, ah.
Su dolor,
abrazando a las demás.
Fuertes las voces,
firmes las manos,
somos millones,
no nos callamos,
no nos callamos, no, no nos callamos, no.
I come
to say that in the most difficult corners of the planet
women are singing with a voice of a tormented people.
They are supposed to vociferate to die a little less.
Only pain,
fever,
hatred,
the challenge of misfortune,
only an inoffensive light,
sing the women who sing.
Collas,
miserable princesses of a mercantile America,
who emanate an alcoholic ancestor in laments like knives.
We must let ourselves be hurt,
fall in their pain,
love their crying,
and see how the earth searches for their desolate bones.
Pale witches of the East,
astray sorceresses of Africa,
guardians of suffering,
celebrants of misery who lament uselessly
fatalities ordered by vain gods and cruel men.
I only come to say that they sing and that the
world does not regret their infernal throats,
their forbidden hearts.
I only come to say that they are not blaming us.