El Hombre de Maisinicú

The man fills a wide glass,
although the weight of his strange grace doesn't fit,
and toasts to the death of his April.

Then he climbs to an impregnable place
and sings a pleasant-sounding song,
while inside he curses again.

The man denies his rich land,
he is his own enemy in this new war:
the man saw his face succumb.

Let the house of history be opened wide,
let the throne of glory be reviewed
because a man without a face will die.

Oh, what a sensation,
to have no face and contemplate the world
with eyes as deep
as the eyes of the guardian of the sun!

Oh, what a sensation
to have no face when facing death,
to run the double fate
of trackers and pursued ones,
having so much hidden starlight!
How many million faces will the one
who gave us clarity not have?