Guantanamera

I am a sincere man from where the palm trees grow
I am a simple man from the land of palm trees.
And before I die, I want to pour out these verses that flow from my soul

My verses are brilliant green, and also fiery crimson; my poems are clear green, and also flaming carmine; My poems are like a wounded fawn seeking refuge in the forested mountains;

I cultivate a white rose in June and in January; I cultivate a white rose, in June and in January, for my true friend who lends me his steady hand

And for the cruel one who would break my heart; And for the cruel one who would pluck out my living heart, I cultivate neither thistles nor nettles; I cultivate a white rose

With the poor people of this earth, I cast my lot; With the poor people of this earth, I throw my fate, for the brooks of the mountains please me more than the sea

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