Mi tierra danza
When the days were dressed in gloom and the nights in sighs of the past. Your skin, sore and covered in scars caused by the winds, calls for lamentation.
She says that you do not worry because your inhabitants already deduce your torment. They speak the language of your ancestors, but they do not clean your skin with ointment. Keep itinerating and feed your travelers they dance to your music, but they don't feel it. They keep leaving on your skin footprints and ruffling your torrent.
Dance with me to wash away your sacrifice.
Dance on the colors of the wind.
Dance marking the beat of the migrants.
Dance with our rhythms that purify better than ointment.