You come from the poverty of the houses of the South,
of the hard regions with cold and earthquake
that when even their gods rolled to the death
gave us the lesson of the life in the clay.
You are a caballito greda black, a kiss
Of Mud dark, love, Poppy of Greda,
Dove in the twilight that voted in the roads,
Piggy bank with tears of our poor children.
Girl, you have kept your heart of poor,
Your feet of poor accustomed to stones,
Your mouth that cannot always had bread or delight.
You are the poor South, where it comes from my soul;
In its sky your mother still washing clothes
With my mother. This is why we chose, partner.
