Yaco, El Herrero

More friend of wine than of water;
miserable from being poor, poor Yaco.
He wasn't a worker of the anvil and forge,
he was a laborer, cheaper to hire.

The old folks claim
that war stole half of his sanity;
Yugoslavia might have been his land,
I think, judging by his accent and figure.

Yaco, the blacksmith, Yaco,
Yaco, the blacksmith.

Without neighbors, friends, or relatives,
he brought the trench to his exile.
A character from the opposite sidewalk
who didn't even cross for his burial.

A forced wanderer, his path
stopped in my land, big and rich,
which like him can't find its destiny
and becomes smaller from being so big.

Yaco, the blacksmith, Yaco,
Yaco, the blacksmith.

His life was a bad deal,
just like his departure
for the gravedigger,
who was left without a tip.
Yaco, the blacksmith, Yaco,
Yaco, the blacksmith.

I want to retrieve his file,
to keep him in mind
when organizing the memories
of my town and my people.

Poor wretch!
My verses don't aim
to demand answers from God
about his fate.
Just that my memory
be the absent requiem
for his death.