In the valley of Pocuno
Where the sea wind blows strong
Where the rain brings the moss
lives Angelita Huenumán.
Among oak trees and reeds,
hazel woods and gorse,
in the aroma of wild fuchsias
lives Angelita Huenumán.
Guarded by five dogs
and a son whom love left there,
simple as her little farm
the world revolves around her.
The red blood of the copihue
runs through her Huenumán veins
by the light of a window
Angelita weaves her life.
Her hands dance among the threads
like the little wings of the chincol,
it's a miracle how she weaves a flower,
giving it its aroma, too.
On your looms, Angelita,
are time, tears, and sweat
there are the forgotten hands
of this, my creative people.
After months of working
the woven cloth seeks a buyer
and like a caged bird
it sings for the highest bidder.
Among oak trees and reeds,
hazel woods and gorse,
in the aroma of wild fuchsias
lives Angelita Huenumán.