El Anacleto Del Viento

Poor Anacleto, smoke in hand
With butterfly eyes so grand
He can't even buy a drink
But he's got roses, don't you think?

The end of his cigarette
Lit since the break of dawn, you bet
Each puff's a cry, a plea
That slowly burns away his glee

He's a wandering singer, you see
From nowhere, just like me
But he feels the rhythm rise
When Cafayate's song flies

Anacleto is the wind, you know
Pale from all his woes and woe
Death's whispers in the air
Paths of sorrow everywhere

With his black hat on his head
Tattered like the life he's led
His verses flow like dreams at night
As if they’re born from pure delight

He's a wandering singer, you see
From nowhere, just like me
But he feels the rhythm rise
When Cafayate's song flies