Joyful hunter, go past;
seek for fiercer prey   
and leave me alone,
I am the friend of the house, 
I am the sparrow. 

I do not have the plumage of the goldfinch
which tinges spring with gold and scarlet; 
nor the gentle voice of the nightingale;
nor the wings of the pretty, swift swallow
that cross the ocean in a single flight.
In grey serge, with no colour, no stripes,
in poor clothing I am dressed;  
my sorrows and glories, be joyful or sad,
I sing them as best as I can.

Eagles nest on the rocks
between cliffs, in the gorge that widens its mouth;
among leafy branches, the lively linnet;
turtledove in the tree that split its trunk,
the crow in the crumbling castle ruin.
To man I entrust my brood, 
humble and simple, 
Among the family, under the roof,
I shelter as best as I can.

The ringdove seeks fruit in the forest; the thrush 
grapes from the vine, the starling, the olive; 
to poisonous snakes, the graceful flamingo;
the temple's lamplight, the furtive owl,
and, lambs, the ravenous condor plunders. 
And I live from begging, what to the poor never fails;
feeling fortunate;
the grains lost on the farm-yard between the straw, 
I gather as best as I can.