We are no longer ourselves

Here as you see us
like the owners of the land
as not to die of hunger,
we spend our lives at war.

Are we poor, are we rich?
Nobody knows what we are.
With the sorrows of my people
the myhrr trees bloomed.

What the hell, the minute I say
that there’s metal in the field
the gringo from the north comes,
takes it and leaves a hole.

What the hell, the minute I say
that I feel like being free,
they exchange my clothing
for that of a prisoner.

The land begat my grandfather,
begat my mother and father.
Even a dog wouldn’t bark
at the son born to them.

I defend my right
which is not the right of others
but damn, now I see
that we are no longer ourselves.

We are no longer from this valley,
we are no longer from this mountain,
and everything we till
goes you know where.

Chacarera, chacarera,
chacarera of my reward.
I can’t get rid of this plague
no matter how hard I try.