The breeze would whisper a story of the past,
It would tell you stories of old,
Of a time which didn’t move so fast,
As you traverse the grass of gold,
Its the story of the Conquistadores in their world anew,
Who endured trials like others with a chosen few,
The land of the humble in adobe homes did dwell,
La golondrina did perch its nest so swell,
Like the Conquistadores this bird traveled far,
Interwoven stories to tell,
Sitting by the fire… Laughing could be felt
Past the ocean where all they saw was blue,
The journey was long, the masts lifted high,
The relief of this pleasant land the inward pleasing sigh,
As history would speak of ages gone by,
The shining armor glistens by the sun in the sky,
And what caught his attention en la casa de el,
Was not his wife or children but the golondrina that fell,
When he picked it up he pondered in his heart,
What caused this golondrina to fall, with no story to tell,
Gone, gone and a distant past,
Who will tell the story of La Golondrina at last?
The history scrubbed away from its past,
Don Diego De Vargas will live on at last,
When the swallows fly they whisper the sweet story of days gone by,
The rough hills and beautiful breeze, a dying history is being brought to its knees….