Conchia
I lift to my feet, shufflin’ ‘cross to the backdoor
Of the farmhouse where my father was birthed,
This family tradition might as well be conviction
To a prison farm of fruitless earth.
My Conchia flows freely, I smell the breeze of her movement
As she sachets nearby, not a care…
She is my perfect daughter and though I can’t live without her,
I must make her someday leave here.
Chorus:
Oh Conchia, Papa’s Angel, This was never your burden to bear,
Oh you must go, leave your papa, find real happiness somewhere out there.
V.
It was not always this way when my grandfather lived here,
And he bred the great bulls with great pride.
When ranchero majestive bustled busily and festive,
But Grandpapa and bullfighting have died.
Now I eke our existence, due to Father’s insistence,
I toil for the turnips we’ll boil.
In my mind’s eye, Conchia, playing back at the ranch house,
Keeps me squeezing our food from this soil.
Chorus:
Oh Conchia, You must leave me, don’t do what your Papa has done,
Find your own way, Papa’s Angel, though it means you must leave me alone.
