La Cumbia Está Herida - Toto La Momposina

Adoro mi cumbia, mis ríos, mis montañas

Adoro mi cumbia, mis ríos, mis montañas

Mi palma, mi luna, mis indios y mi cabaña

Mi palma, mi luna, mis indios y mi cabaña

Mis campos eran sanos, no estaban manchados

Mis campos eran sanos, no estaban manchados

Llegaron foráneos, con el graje en la mano

Llegaron foráneos, con el graje en la mano

La luna está roja, será porque sufre

Como ave en congoja, que se sube, se sube

Y al oír como suenan, escapar metralletas, al inocente condenan y nadie protesta

Y nadie protesta, y nadie protesta y nadie protesta

No suenan tambores, temen por sus vidas

No suenan tambores, temen por sus vidas

Hay luto hay temores, la cumbia está herida

Hay luto hay temores, la cumbia está herida

La aves se han ido, alejan los lugares

La aves se han ido, alejan los lugares

Tan solo los nidos, pesares, pesares

Tan solo los nidos, pesares, pesares

La luna está roja, será porque sufre

Como ave en congoja, que se sube, se sube

Y al oír como suenan, escapar metralletas, al inocente condenan y nadie protesta

Y nadie protesta, y nadie protesta y nadie protesta

I love my cumbia, my rivers, my mountains

I love my cumbia, my rivers, my mountains

My palm, my moon, my Indians and my cabin

My palm, my moon, my Indians and my cabin

My fields were healthy, they were not stained

My fields were healthy, they were not stained

Foreigners arrived, with the graje in the hand

Foreigners arrived, with the graje in the hand

The moon is red, it will be because it suffers

Like a bird in anguish, that climbs, climbs

And hearing how they sound, escaping machine guns, they condemn the innocent and no one protests

And no one protests, and no one protests and no one protests

No drums beat, they fear for their lives

No drums beat, they fear for their lives

There is mourning, there are fears, the cumbia is wounded

There is mourning, there are fears, the cumbia is wounded

The birds are gone, they push away the places

The birds are gone, they push away the places

Just the nests, regrets, regrets

Just the nests, regrets, regrets

The moon is red, it will be because it suffers

Like a bird in anguish, that climbs, climbs

And hearing how they sound, escaping machine guns, they condemn the innocent and no one protests

And no one protests, and no one protests and no one protests