La Pena Del Payador

The evening in the west gathered his poncho
Combing among its fringes a flake of crimson,
And the thread of the night, coming on horseback,
Embroidered in black silk the petals of the sun.

The tearful grasslands bent to the pampero
And the old man of the cart, goading the lazy ox,
Stuffs himself at the iron grille of the storekeeper,
Making his gaucho provision for the journey.

Bleating the sheep, the flock gathers,
Heading towards the houses in search of the pen.
And the tero sentinel, soldier on the front line,
Watches that the rustlers don't drive off an animal.

Calandrias and zorzales, with scarlet breasts,
Are seen bivouacking in the thicket of the forest
Hanging from the branches the covers of their flutes,
Like tired musicians coming to spend the night.

Suddenly, far away, at a rhythmic pace,
A freight wagon is seen skirting the ravine
And in it a sad gaucho wrapped in black,
With the bearing of a man, nerve, audacity, and heart.

Silver facón at the waist, cocked blunderbuss,
Nazarene spurs, hat thrown back.
There goes Santos Vega, rider on his chestnut,
Thinking that life is too much for him.

Who knows what deep sorrow abysses the pilgrim,
Centaur of the plains, undefeated troubadour.
That, in vain, the acacias and willows of the road
Bend to see him smile in his pain.

But they say those who know hidden loves
That they know the gaucho's indomitable valor,
That only two rebellious eyes are guilty
Of that great sadness that afflicts the troubadour.