Let's Go!


  1. Our voice
  2. Let’s go country
  3. Away from your face

So that the path doesn’t cry for me,
So I don’t bleed through the words,
I sing.
For your face the soul’s frontier
born in my hands:
I sing.
To say you have grown transparent
in the bitter bones of my voice:
I sing.
So no one may say – my land!
with all the force of nostalgia
I sing.
For those who must not die, your people,
I sing.

Walking out over my voice I say:
you, interrogation of fruits and wild butterflies,
you will not lose your way in the scaffolding of my cry,
for there is a Mayan potter in your heart
who, under the sea, within the star,
smoking in root, palpitating world,
catches your name in my words.
I sing that name, joyful as the violin which is plough
: encounter of my human pain is still to come.
From the sea’s arm to the arm of the wind they look for me
to break the tolerance of dusk in my mouth.
The sacrifice of being man accompanies me,
Keeps me from going down to the place where treason’s
where the fool chained his heart to shadow, denying you.

Let’s go country, I will go with you.

I will descend the depths you claim for me.
I will drink of your bitter chalices
I will remain blind that you may see.
I will remain voiceless that you may sing.
I will die that you may live,
so your flaming face appears
in every flower born of my bones.

That is the way it must be, unquestionably.

Now I am tired of carrying your tears with me.
Now I want to walk with you, in lightning step.
Go with you on your journey, because I am a man
of the people, born in October to confront the world.

Ay, country,
the coronels who piss on your walls:
we must pull them out by the roots
hang them from the tree of the bitter dew,
violent with the anger of our people
For this I say let us walk together, always
with the agrarian peasants
and the union workers,
with he who has a heart to know you.

Let’s go, country, I will go with you.

My small country, sweet torment,
a bed of love lifts my pupils
and my throat fills wild with joy
when I say country, worker, golondrina.
A thousand years I have wakened in death
and laid my cadaver to sleep on you great name,
floating aver all of freedom’s breath,
Guatemala, saying, my country, little campesina

Ay, Guatemala,
saying your name I come back to life.
I rise from the cry in search of your smile.
I raise the letters of the alphabet to A
where the wind flows out in gladness
and I return to contemplate you as you are,
a root growing towards the human light
with all the pressure of the people on your back.
Damned be the traitors,
They shall know the death of death until death!

From a loving mother, how are these vile sons born?

This is the life of the pueblos, bitter and sweet,
but her fight will put a human end to all.
For that, my country, dawns will be born of you,
when man revises luminously his past.
For that my, country,
when I say your name I reveal my cry
and the wind escapes its condition of wind.
The rivers leave their meditated course
and demonstrate, their arms about you.
The seas, on their waves and horizons,
swear your name, wounded with blue words, clean,
to carry you to the people’s piercing cry,
where fish swim with auroreal fins.

The fight of men redeems you in your life.

Country, small, man and land and liberty
carrying hope on morning paths.
You are the ancient mother of suffering and pain.
She who goes with a child of corn in her arms.
She who invents hurricane of love and cherry shoots
and blossoms out over the peace of the world
so that all will love a little of your name:
a brutal piece of your mountains
or the heroic hand of your guerrilla sons.

Small country, my sweet torment,
song settling in my throat
from centuries of rebel corn:
for a thousand years I carry our name
like a tiny future heart,
whose wings begin to open tomorrow.