Semblanza de tierra seca

I walk on the sand,
my tired feet sink,
and my pupils burn
in the brightness of the fields.

The water doesn't flow down,
poor my countrymen,
it seems that even time
takes advantage of the weakest.
They barely have a bit
of land to make do,
they've sown with courage
dreaming of white crows.
They don't know that for the poor
only arms have been made,
hope is for those
with miles and miles of land.
The cows are in the street licking thistle roots
because the tooth no longer enters no matter how hard they try,
the skin, the skin sticks to the bone, hunger bends them,
thin man and thin cow, feast for the chimango.
The willow no longer provides shade,
the streams have dried up,
the shade is inside the soul,
the water in bitter tears.
Gaucho, how I admire you,
tamer of bad times,
for you my homeland is my homeland,
for you my song is my song.
If time has shame,
it won't deny you a hand.