She was our gift of pure woman Who carried us when we gave her away. Immediately did the mountains own her, She of big heart that could contain them all, The way a diamond holds the sun. Couriers would come as rivers to the sea, Always remembering to tell of her. Their stories of good deeds sang with our blood, And would arouse all to cadre work among the masses Of peasants and workers become power Terraces of the northwestern battle front. And the rise and fall of their cadences Would match the terrain of grounded imagery, And speak of how she and the people were one; Of how the Cordilleras lifted their eyes To whose tallness dared the soaring skies; Of how the pines resined the air with her Warm friendship and boundless camaraderie. And easily we would add our own Because we had recognized her first.   One day comrades arrived with quiet grief, And we understood she divided no longer Like the people's protracted struggle. Now among the heroes we place and name her. The mighty ranges stand at attention, Sound their gongs and call to dance. The lowlands quicken with antiphons Of incantatory proletarian calls. Silent is the mystery of her leaving Far from the hills that ran her laughter.   But her spirit rises like a clear political lesson That patterns memories versing we are alive! The rhythms rush to remold our being, And we transform sorrows into red banners Of unfurled courage against the class enemies. O the revolution is heightened by grace Like her in the service of the people, And not in a thousand years will she thin Into an uncertain hum of lost love.