Down in Central she waits,
Past the hushed harbor,
Next to the fields of snow-white bauhinias,
Where my people once sang her nocturnes

Down in Central she waits,
Past the meadows of flaxen umbrellas,
Next to the long winding roads,
Where my people now stand tall in the rain wondering whether they will ever see her.

Down in Central she waits,

Past the cemeteries where many of our hopes and dreams rest,
Next to the front gates of her own prison,
Where my people protest her incarceration.

But down in Central we will wait,
Past all those who have forgotten her,
Next to all those who are weathering the storm,
Where my people hope to  hear her sing one day.