| The moon is shining on the Pecos Mountains |
| Like a blue and silver dream, |
| And far away below the moonlit mountains |
| You are standing in your field. |
| You are an old man, |
| The earth is in your voice, |
| And in the songs that spill from your memory. |
| A hoe in your old hand, |
| Black water in the furrowed rows, |
| You sing our lives as they used to be, |
| Mi abuelito. |
| Tomorrow morning we will carry you |
| Beyond the village to a stony hill, |
| And rest you there beside your brightest blanket, |
| Leaves and diamonds that you wove last year. |
| Then, with our song |
| We will call for the summer stars |
| To fill the sky like a silver dream. |
| How we will sing |
| As we hold to the memory of your earthen voice on the moonlit field, |
| «Mi abuelito — cantaremos de ti |
| En el cielo — cantaremos de ti |
| Cantando — cantaremos de ti |
| Entre la luna y las estrellas!» |