They abound this season
Flapping their wings
Blocking the sunshine
Carrying bugles and ostrich feathers,
Through their yellow teeth
The heat of yerba mate radiates
They make no distinction between
The dignitary and the mobster
Between the esteemed and the rascal
Only scarabs pass them by without reckoning
We still hear the drums in all parts of the village;
Drums made in a country not far from ours.

We are in the presence of the Holy Matron
We sanctify
Dust has settled over her garb
Having buried the phoenix,
Her children have left their houses
And some lost their direction
We strayed from one another
And the paths of the honest
Were blurred
We had our fill of worries for a thousand years
Despite the limitation of time.

Here we are at the bottom of the riverbed
And cannot row our way back to the source spring
When the day is short
So is the night.

To you Lord is my hymn and plea:
Will there be salvation,
Will it rain
Will there be sunshine
And will the birds
Flutter their wings again?