Here in Venezuela
We sleep through the heavy afternoons,
Drowsy from our constant labor
Under stern, insistent sun. Insects rise
Off the measured flow of the Orinoco
And cover our thin bodies
With sniping bites and blood. But soon,
Under our firm but gentle hand,
All nap again in quiet,
The flies laid out like corpses
In a shuttered funeral home.
We are happy, for our country
Is the country of the People
And it is in That Voice we leaders speak
On their little radios.
Some workers say our junta
Grows fat on the meat of self-praise,
The People merely drunken
On an oily wine of words.
These thoughts are foolish and mistaken,
For we are One Collective
Elected always, always fairly;
We are the demos, the common people,
And thus cannot be wrong.
So let us sing, in the smoke of evening,
Our love of Land and God and People:
Gloria al Bravo Pueblo,
Dios y Federación.