Lyrics of 'Terceto Autóctono' by Mercedes Sosa
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El puño labrador se aterciopela
Y en cruz en cada labio se aperfila
Es fiesta! El ritmo del arado vuela
Y es un chantre de bronce cada esquila
Afílase lo rudo. Habla escarcela...
En las venas indígenas rutila
Un yaraví de sangre que se cuela
En nostalgias de sol por la pupila
Las pallas, aquenando hondos suspiros
Como en raras estampas seculares
Enrosarian un símbolo en sus giros
Luce él apóstol en su trono, luego
Y es', entre inciensos, cirios y cantares
El moderno dios-sol para el labriego
Echa una cana al aire el indio triste
Hacia el altar fulgente va el gentío
El ojo del crepúsculo desiste
De ver quemado vivo el caserío
La pastora de lana y llanque viste
Con pliegues de candor en su atavío
Y en su humildad de lana heroica y triste
Copo es su blanco corazón bravío
Entre músicas, fuegos de bengala
Solfea un acordeón. Algún tendero
Da su reclame al viento: "¡nadie iguala!"
Las chispas al flotar lindas, graciosas
Son trigos de oro audaz que el chacarero
Siembra en los cielos y en las nebulosas
Madrugada. La chicha al fin revienta
En sollozos, lujurias, pugilatos
Entre olores de urea y de pimienta
Traza un ebrio al andar mil garabatos
"Mañana que me vaya" se lamenta
Un romeo rural cantando a ratos
Caldo madrugador hay ya de venta
Y brinca un ruido aperital de platos
Van tres mujeres...silba un golfo...
Lejos el río anda borracho y canta y llora
Prehistorias de agua, tiempos viejos
Y al sonar una caja de tayanga
Como iniciando un huaino azul, remanga
Sus pantorrillas de azafrán la aurora
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Otras canciones de Mercedes Sosa
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