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Flowers are not born at the ranch
You can't even see the hanging guitar
The green bower no longer listens
Yesterday's country idyll
The spurs are no longer heard rolling
Stomping a malambo in the harvest
You don't even hear Vega's "sad"
remembering the lost love
The black-eyed brunette
Already in spring afternoons
Lying in the gate
The thrush waits no more
And the countryman does not cross
the mysterious lagoon
It is not heard on moonlit nights
The National Pericón
And the countryman does not cross
the mysterious lagoon
It is not heard on moonlit nights
The National Pericón
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