The mother of the proud warriors of colors
Who by their wisdom and courage
Have made her a queen.
To America, to this torch that my grandmother holds on the edge of the distant river.
The torch of independence, the independence of your territory.
The torch of freedom, the freedom of your children.
The torch of prosperity, the prosperity of humankind.
The torch of heritage,
That the vast expanses of this old continent offer you in the golden cities
And mythical countries of Eldorado,
Norembergue and Saguenay.
The torch that never extinguishes.
Held by the hand of the victory.
To America, my America of whom sings my grandfather on the banks of the distant river
I never knew you but my gaze is full of your blood
The blood of your sweat,
The sweat of your work,
The work of slavery,
The bondage of your children
America tell me America.
Is it you the most powerful bird that by its greatness and its capacity has made its nest on the moon.?
This white headed bird
Who reaches the inaccessible and meditates on the impossible.
Then gently a reassuring voice answered me:
Impetuous Girl this robust and young bird
That bird splendidly up there
Away from prying eyes
Looking for shelter near the blue and cold river
It’s America, your America that flies,
That flies over latitude attentively
And whose wings are determined to go far, far into the future.
Can you see it now?
Well, this is America.