Bajo El Azote Del Sol

Under the scourge of the sun
Summer is bleeding
While the afternoon punishes
The sadness of the ranches.

Lying under the cebil tree
The man is a skinny dog
Climbing up the bones
Towards a direction of vultures.

Look at the smoke, boss
That people throw beside him
Like the charcoal oven
They have the fire covered.

At the edge of the salt flat
The moon sleeps early
Because the sugarcane nights
Sharpen bitter dreams.

Popular pot moon
With the closed mills
In the soul's sugar mills
Tucumán becomes sugarcane juice.