The Balanguera of mystery,
like a spider of subtle art,
empties, oh, empties her spinning wheel
and pulls off the thread of all our hearts.
Our true destiny she ponders deep,
weaving the cloth as day begins.
The Balanguera she spins, she spins,
the Balanguera she shall spin.
Turning her glance to history passing
she guards the shades of ancestry
and from the dewy verdant budding
she knows where all the seeds are hid.
She knows that the vine-stock climbs higher
the deeper its roots can go in.
From traditions and from our good hopes
the youthful flag flies in the air,
as she weaves and grooms a wedding veil
with strands of gold and silver hair
of the childhood that grows up quickly
of the old age that’s always been.