Land of my elders
By: Victor Cáceres Lara
Brown and warm land of my elders,
exuberant of fruits,
tired of promises
you are sustenance of all the desires,
feverish inspiration of all struggle
and brand new banner of dreams.
How did you get with the kisses of major!
Which throbs your bountiful breast!
How your thriving stranger widens
and vaporizes her loving longing!
In the evenings I contemplate your hills
green in their ascent to the skies
like emerald index they point
the routes of the fight and the stars.
How do your resounding rivers look!
They run in the width of the savannas
fertilizing the land and giving life
to the herds of the thousand herds
they look like the arteries that bleed
the unrivaled bosom of the mountains
and drawing its curves in the valleys
simulate the snakes that slithered
in the distant tales of childhood.
How do your prodigious fields look!
here the cornfield arched by the breezes,
on the humid and tight lands;
there the plow that when opening the furrows
prepare the warm and generous bed
so that by resurrecting the seeds;
always the peasant who in eternal waiting
makes tenacious forgetfulness of his fatigues,
to wage their war against hunger.
Brown and warm land of my elders,
exuberant of fruits,
tired of promises
you are sustenance of all the desires
feverish inspiration of all struggle,
flaming banner of dreams.
How I love you with my vastest love!
How I live you in your brown heat!
How I sing to you with anointing of delivery!
How I dream of you in your splendor of glory!
You animate my yearnings: You light them up!
And you live in my idea: You illuminate them!
I dream of you in your color of virgin clay,
wet from the emotion of the drizzles
and lit with light when you bathe,
with the miracle of solar rays.
I dream of you in the song that gives the rain,
while, between lightning and thunder
you release your spiritous and sweet aroma
for there to be a deluge of memories.
Your song with my voice full of lullabies,
green and happy when the grass covers,
the steep sides of the hills
And when the fury of summer comes down
your calcined entrails shudder
by the cruel bite of heat.
I always sing to you with my burning voice
of pure love, of longing for greatness,
of dreams and ideas that they pursue
a path of light in your future.
And I always long for your haughty glory,
hotbed of pure heroism,
it dilates endlessly through the spaces
covering the time of resounding hymns.
I think of the sacrifice of your martyrs,
in the holy gospel of your saints,
in the invincible fight of your heroes,
in the clear dawn of your patriarchs
and in the strong commitment of your people
for opening the door to hope.
Brown and warm land of my elders,
exuberant of fruits,
tired of promises
let the fertile realities arrive,
let the hopes bear fruit
and let the choir of events resound
above sterile words!
