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The afternoon in the west, his poncho was gathering
Combing, among her fringes, a wisp of blush
And the thread of the night, which was coming on its haunches
She embroidered the petals of the sun on black silk
Tearfully, the weeds bent to the pampero wind.
And the old man with the cart, goading the sycophantic ox
It clings to the iron grate of the pulpero
Making his gaucho provisions for the journey
The sheep bleat as the flock gathers together.
Heading towards the houses in search of the corral
And the sentinel lapwing, advance soldier
Make sure the Indians don't herd an animal
Larks and thrushes, with scarlet breasts
They can be seen bivouacking in the thick of the forest
Hanging from the branches, the canopies of their flutes
Like tired musicians who come to spend the night
Suddenly, far away, at a measured pace
A freight train can be seen peeking out, skirting the edge of the ravine.
And in it, a sad gaucho wrapped in black.
With the bearing of a man, nerve, audacity and heart
Silver knife at the waist, hammered blunderbuss
Nazarene spurs, hat thrown back
There goes Santos Vega, rider on his chestnut horse
Thinking that life is superfluous for him
Who knows what deep sorrow overwhelms the pilgrim
Centaur of the Pampas, undefeated payador
That, in vain, the acacias and willows of the road
They lean in to watch him smile through his pain.
But, those who know about hidden loves say
And the gaucho is known for his indomitable courage
That only two black eyes are guilty
Of that great sadness that afflicts the troubadour
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