Lyrics of Cantores que reflexionan - Violeta Parra

Cantores que reflexionan (original)

En la prisión de la ansiedad medita un astro en alta voz
Gime y se agita como león, como queriéndose escapar
¿De dónde viene su corcel?
Con ese brillo abrumador
Parece falso el arrebol que se desprende de su ser
«Viene del reino de Satán», toda su sangre respondió
Quemas el árbol del amor, dejas cenizas al pasar
Va prisionero del placer, y siervo de la vanidad
Busca la luz de la verdad, ma' la mentira está a sus pies
Gloria le tiende terca red, y le aprisiona el corazón
En los silencios de su voz que se va ahogando sin querer
La candileja artificial le ha encandilado la razón
Dale tu mano, amigo Sol, en su tremenda oscuridad
¿Qué es lo que canta?
Digo yo, no se consigue responder
Vana e' la abeja sin su miel, vana la hoz sin segador
¿Es el dinero alguna luz para los ojo' que no ven?
«Treinta denarios y una cruz», responde el eco de Israel
¿De dónde viene tu mentir?
¿Y a dónde empieza tu verdad?
Parece broma tu mirar, llanto parece tu reír
Y su conciencia dijo, al fin, «cántale al hombre en su dolor»
En su miseria y su sudor, y en su motivo de existir
Cuando del fondo de su ser, entendimiento, así le habló
Un vino nuevo le endulzó las amargura' de su hiel
Hoy es su canto un azadón que le abre surcos al vivir
A la justicia en su raíz, y a los raudale' de su voz
En su divina comprensión luce' brotaban del cantor

(translation)

In the prison of anxiety a star meditates aloud
Moans and shakes like a lion, as if wanting to escape
Where does his steed come from him?
With that overwhelming brightness
The glow that emerges from his being seems false
"He Comes from the realm of Satan", all her blood from him replied
You burn the tree of love, leave ashes behind
He is a prisoner of pleasure, and a servant of vanity
He seeks the light of truth, ma 'the lie is at his feet
Gloria casts a stubborn net for him, and imprisons his heart
In the silences of his voice that he inadvertently drowns
The artificial footlight has dazzled his reason
Give him your hand, friend Sun, in his tremendous darkness
What is he singing?
I say, it is not possible to answer
The bee is vain without its honey, the sickle is vain without a reaper
Is money some light for the eyes' that do not see?
"Thirty denarii and a cross," replies the echo of Israel
Where does your lie come from?
And where does your truth begin?
Your look seems like a joke, crying seems like you laugh
And his conscience of him said, finally, "sing to the man in his pain of him"
In her misery and her sweat of him, and in her reason for existing
When from the bottom of his being of him, understanding, so he spoke to him
A new wine sweetened the bitterness of his gall
Today his song is a hoe that opens furrows for him to live
To the justice in his root of him, and to the raudale 'of his voice
In his divine understanding of him looks 'poured from the singer