When the sun was setting
I found him
In a gloomy hut,
in Lonquen,
In a poverty stricken sickness,
I found him,
When the sun was setting
in Lonquen
His hands, although so old
were strong in their plaiting,
They were rough and they were tender
with the animal skin.
The plaited noose, like a snake
curled around the walnut tree
In which every mesh was woven
His life and his bread.
How much time is contained in his hands
and in his patient gaze
and nobody has said: "That's enough,
you should not work anymore."
The shadows fell interlacing,
the last light of the day.
The old man weaves some verses
to capture some gaiety.
His nooses have traveled
south and north, coast and mountain,
but the old man never learnt
what distance really means.
He leaves his life in plainted leather
knotted to the walnut tree
Soon death will come
and that too will be plaited in.
What does it matter if the noose is firm
and lasts for eternity,
Intertwined with some country place
the old man at last will rest.
When the sun was setting
I found him
In a gloomy hut
in Lonquen
In a poverty stricken sickness
I found him
When the sun was setting
in Lonquen

I was a soldier of Francisco Villa

for that man of immortal fame

who though he was the main leader

was the envy of the President, ayayay.

Now I live over there on the river-bank

remembering Villa

over there near Parral.

I was one of those dorados

who with time became a major:

we were wounded in the struggle

defending our homeland and honor.

Today I remember times past

when we fought against the invader, ayayay

today I remember times past

of these dorados

where I was a major.

My horse that I rode so much

met death at Jimenez.

A bullet that was meant for me

pierced his body.

As he died he neighed in pain--

he gave his life for the homeland, ayayay

As he died he neighed in pain--

how I wept for him

when he died.

Pancho Villa, I carry your image

in my mind and in my heart

and though sometimes I was defeated

by Alvaro Obregon's forces...

I was always a faithful soldier

until the end of the revolution, ayayay.

I was always a good soldier

who has fought so much

at the foot of the canyon.

They came from the desert,

from the hills and the sea.

Their hearts burst free

and set out walking.

They knew about death

and how hard bread can be,

they came from the desert

from the hills and the sea.

A comrade told them

about our humanity,

the story of the mines,

of the country and the cities.

So much humiliation

shook their very souls

and all the multitude

understood brotherhood.

They went back to work,

the miner and the fisherman,

singing of hope, forging unity,

with pipes and drums and metal flutes,

sowing the seeds which bear fruit for all.