Mine is the voice that sings it,
and it is because I feel that I dare.
With the roots that so many forget,
chasing foreign models.
Traditions of the country,
that those forged.
In forts enduring
the treacherous evil.
How well José Hernandez describes it,
in his Marté Fierro.
I say in the zamba that even I brought, this guitar player.
Today, when in all its extension
the homeland is barbed wire,
disinherited, gauchos and Indians
impoverished, are reincarnated.
And with all their anxiety
to possess what those,
they move the wheel of escolazo
and the damnable sinister escapism.
Which describes me in your daily
plate of food.
History lies,
I say in the zamba of this guitar player.
Zamba de resurrección,
they will give you Creole guitars.
I leave my words with you,
for the honor of the race.
The roots will be forgotten,
whoever likes to sing it.
As myself
and without persecuting myself,
I have dared to do.

KORREKTUREN ÃœBERMITTELN