| There comes Durruti with a letter in his hand | 
| Where it says the miseries of this sovereign people | 
| Durruti comes over there with a book in his backpack | 
| Where it points the millions that the capital has stolen | 
| This is where Durruti comes with fourteen companions | 
| And he tells the bosses what the workers want | 
| Durruti comes over there with a sheet of paper | 
| To tell the soldiers to get out of the barracks | 
| There comes Durruti without a carriage and without money | 
| Everyone salutes him, peasant and laborer | 
| This is where Durruti comes with Noe's tables | 
| So that the workers know that there is no country, god or king | 
| A new day dawns, sadness in the morning | 
| Death wets the streets, of Via Calletana | 
| Broken glances, crystal tears | 
| A coffin runs through, the popular mass | 
| A father with his son, they do not stop watching | 
| And the child with his innocence from him to his father from him went to ask | 
| Father!!! | 
| Who died? | 
| Son!!! | 
| a humble worker | 
| Father!!! | 
| what happened to him? | 
| Son!!! | 
| a bullet killed him | 
| The kid is surprised, he can't assimilate | 
| He is not a king, he is not a minister nor a military man | 
| But the people are in the street to see him bury | 
| But the town is crying for the friend who is leaving | 
| Father!!! | 
| who has killed him? | 
| Son!!! | 
| you will know it yourself | 
| Father!!! | 
| Why did they do it? | 
| Son!!! | 
| for defending your freedom | 
| Long live Durruti the workers shouted | 
| Long live Durruti the friend of the people | 
| Red and black flags, breathless hearts | 
| Libertarian throats, singing children of the people | 
| Cracks in history, silence the reasons | 
| Of those of us who carry a new world in our hearts |