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Good afternoon,

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I'm very happy and thankful to be here.

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I'm going to share a song with you[br]called "I say porridge,"

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which is a very delicious recipe[br]of an Argentine dessert.

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I was thinking, I think that recipes

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hold people's memories[br]and preserve and share them,

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just like they are in songs,

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I think that's why I like to sing.

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The 'mazamorra' is[br]a dessert made from corn,

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which is prepared in a similar fashion[br]to the Mexican atole

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which is why I chose this[br]song to sing here today.

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Corn is a plant

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that from the start has been very[br]connected to the birth and development

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of the ancient cultures on our continent.

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You might know that the gods[br]made man out of corn,

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or that it was him,[br]the son of god, they say,

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the one who sank himself into the earth[br]and made corn sprout from his body.

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It's a sacred and very mysterious plant;

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something that sticks out to me[br]is that it doesn't grow in the wild,

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rather it depends on the hands of men

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who thresh, sow, and harvest it.

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So, it's a plant that connects men[br]and women to the earth,

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and also connects them to[br]the sky, because these people,

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watching their crops and observing[br]the movement of the stars,

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created calendars

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and left us a legacy of immense knowledge

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that I hope to honor with this song today:[br]"I say porridge."

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♪ Porridge, you know,[br]is the bread of the poor ♪

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♪ And the milk of the mothers[br]with empty breasts ♪

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♪ I kiss the hands[br]of the Inca Viracocha ♪

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♪ Because he invented corn[br]and taught farming ♪

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♪ It comes in a trough[br]to keep the family together ♪

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♪ Greeted by the old,[br]celebrated by the young ♪

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♪ Over there where[br]the goats silently return ♪

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♪ And hunger is a cloud[br]with wings of wheat ♪

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♪ Everything in it is[br]beautiful: the ripe cob ♪

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♪ That is shelled on[br]windy country nights ♪

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♪ The pestle and the maiden[br]with braids over her shoulder ♪

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♪ To the grain she is adding[br]blushes and sighs ♪

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♪ If you want it perfect,[br]look for a clay pot ♪

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♪ And thicken it with[br]slight, neat gestures ♪

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♪ From the rocking chair[br]cut from the branches of the fig tree ♪

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♪ That accompanies your nap[br]with shades, little birds, and figs ♪

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(Recites) You can add[br]a touch of Jume to it,

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this plant found in desert valleys

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that lets its flames[br]to feed it with its strength

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until it turns slightly amber.

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When you eat it, you feel[br]the people by your side

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along valleys and river bends.

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When you eat it, you feel[br]the Earth is your mother,

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more than the old sad lady who[br]awaits your return from the field.

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Its mother of your mother

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and her face is a[br]stone carved by centuries.

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♪ Many cities ignore its American taste ♪

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♪ And many had forgotten[br]its Argentinian flavor ♪

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♪ But it will always remain[br]what it was for the Inca ♪

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♪ A nursing mother for the Andean poor ♪

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♪ The night poets and[br]singers will be shot ♪

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♪ For having corrupted and betrayed ♪

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♪ The music and the pollen,[br]the birds and the fire ♪

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♪ These verses I recite[br]might keep me safe ♪

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♪ These verses I recite[br]might keep me safe ♪

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♪ These verses I recite[br]might keep me safe ♪

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(Applause)