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The moon is shining on the Pecos Mountains |
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Like a blue and silver dream, |
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And far away below the moonlit mountains |
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You are standing in your field. |
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You are an old man, |
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The earth is in your voice, |
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And in the songs that spill from your memory. |
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A hoe in your old hand, |
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Black water in the furrowed rows, |
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You sing our lives as they used to be, |
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Mi abuelito. |
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Tomorrow morning we will carry you |
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Beyond the village to a stony hill, |
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And rest you there beside your brightest blanket, |
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Leaves and diamonds that you wove last year. |
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Then, with our song |
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We will call for the summer stars |
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To fill the sky like a silver dream. |
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How we will sing |
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As we hold to the memory of your earthen voice on the moonlit field, |
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"Mi abuelito - cantaremos de ti |
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En el cielo - cantaremos de ti |
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Cantando - cantaremos de ti |
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Entre la luna y las entrellas!" |
