Lamento del Indio - Inti Illimani

Los arados, los sembríos

Las cosechas y su amor,

Dan al indio en este mundo

Alegría en su dolor.

Por donde quiera que vaya

Toca triste el rondador

Porque en su alma hay sólo pena,

Sufrimiento y gran dolor.

The plows, the crops

The harvests and their love,

They give the Indian in this world

Joy in his pain from him.

everywhere i go

The prowler plays sad

Because in his soul there is only sorrow,

Suffering and great pain.