Nostalgia
Mamá! Borinquén calls me!
This is not my country!
Borinquén is pure flame,
and here, I freeze to death!
After a better future
the native stead I left,
to set up store
in mid New York.
All around, I see
a sad panorama,
as my soul calls out,
nostalgia wounded,
to return to nation’s nest.
Mamá, Borinquén calls me!
Where will I find
like in my homeland
arroz con pollo,
y un buen café?
Where, where will I see
radiant and adorned,
untamed girls like running horses,
whose beholders’ eyes they blind
with only one look of their own?
For here, eyes don’t shine.
This country is not mine!
And if I hear a song,
one of those learnt back home,
or even just a dance, from Tavárez,
Campos, or Dueño Colón,
my tender heart
does swell
as the faithful’s herald proclaims
a sacred sentiment,
tears in my eyes…
Borinquén is pure flame!
In my land, what delight!
In the raw of winter
not a single naked tree,
nor a meadow without green.
In the garden, arresting flower,
as gossips to the river walk,
and the bird in a dark forest
sings an arbitrary song,
While here…snow is shroud!
And I freeze to death!
Translator’s Note: Borinquén is the native name for Puerto Rico.