El Remate

There is a lack of air, and there are too many flies this January Sunday
The sun fries the cicadas, a blue nag sleeps
Some chickens with arganas have open beaks
By the little pools of shade there are some guachas drinking
The siesta crosses the hot roads in its slowness
Thistle-blue eyes peer from afar
And they peek out through the leaks, blue eyes of the sky
Everything is sweet because he is so poor
In front of the shelving ranch
Who is with his four elbows frayed with time
An auctioneer auctions the clothes of an old Creole
There are many interested parties, they are all neighbors
Boys who until recently called him Grandpa
The old man, leaning against the palenque, looks at them sadly
They have gone to buy cheap things that are priceless
And he thinks bitterly, time no longer produces Creoles
What a pair of spurs!
And the iron slices are like two big tears
Let them cry for their owner
With them he went out to win many winters ago
The bride in a white bagual, life in a black bagual
The waiters raise the offer, I give 10, 15, 20 pesos!
They argue like caranchos about grandfather's heart
Hearing them makes the sky turn red with shame
The Nazarenes are yours! the auctioneer says to one of them
They have sold the crybabies, today unfortunately today so soon
That in the palenque life tied its blackest bagual
And he thinks bitterly, time no longer produces Creoles

They put a poncho up for sale, where the fringes drizzle
To wet the eyes of whoever wears it
His mouth is sewn shut, and time has worn him out so much
That through the backlight of the calamaco you can see the owner's story
Guampas spears and knives riddled it with holes
But his philosophy always put a patch on it
By day with a light blue, by night with a bright star
I'll pay whatever money I have for that thing!
I'm raising the bid by an ounce! If there's no one else to buy it, I'll burn it!
And then the hammer falls into the harsh silence
A young man takes the poncho and there the old gaucho is nearby
It's shivering from the cold on a January afternoon
And he thinks bitterly, time no longer produces Creoles!

So you lose on the descent what you gained on the climb
One by one the sheep, garment by garment, the tool
I would like to save your blue squirt from the lot
So that the night can catch him on a starry horse
He only has one, and that one the auctioneer burns

There the auction ends, the grocer collected his bill
Oh yes! Seeing him on foot, so bitter, so wasted
All directions overwhelm the bonds of the paths
And there are four pile drivers, who are waiting for the old man
That as soon as he wants to leave, they will hit him on the ground

Then those young men come to defend him
And the most cunning one tells him between trembling and smiling
We all bought his clothes, to save them, grandpa
Here are your spurs, here is your tile
Another brings him in his arms, just like a child's tools
Another warms his hands with that fringed poncho
And another one who didn't buy anything, stamps a kiss on his forehead
Because time keeps giving us criollos, very beautiful criollos!