El Remate

The air is missing, and there are too many flies this January Sunday
The sun fries the cicadas, a blue tile sleeps
Some chickens with swollen crops have their beaks open
By the little patches of shade, some girls are drinking
Through the hot paths, the siesta crosses in its slow pace
Blue thistle eyes peek from afar
And peeking through the leaks, blue sky eyes
Everything is sweet from being so poor
In front of the rundown ranch
With its four elbows frayed by time
An auctioneer auctions off the clothes of an old gaucho
There are many interested, all neighbors
Boys who until recently called him grandpa
Leaning on the fence, the old man watches sadly
They've come to buy cheap things that are priceless
And he thinks bitterly, time no longer gives criollos
How much are these pair of spurs worth!
And the iron slices are like two big tears
Crying for their owner
With them he went out to win many winters ago
The girlfriend on a white horse, life on a black horse
The boys raise the bid, 10, 15, 20 pesos!
They dispute like vultures the old man's heart
Hearing them, the sky blushes with shame
The Nazarenes are his!, says the auctioneer to one
They've sold the weepers, unfortunately so soon
That in the corral life tied his blackest horse
And he thinks bitterly, time no longer gives criollos
They put up for sale a poncho, where the fringes get wet
To moisten the eyes of the one who wears it
It has a mouth stitched up, and time has worn it out so much
That against the light of the calamaco, the owner's history is seen
Guampas, knives, and facones riddled it with holes
But his philosophy always patched it up
By day with a light blue, by night with a star
I'll pay for that outfit all the money I have!
I raise the bid by an ounce!, if no one bids more, I'll burn it!
And then the hammer falls in the hard silence
A boy takes the poncho and nearby the old gaucho
Is trembling with cold on a January afternoon
And he thinks bitterly, time no longer gives criollos!
That's how he loses on the descent what he gained on the climb
One by one the sheep, garment by garment, the gear
He would like to save from the lot his blue roan
So that night catches him on a starry horse
He has no more than one, and that one, the auctioneer burns it
The auction ends there, the shopkeeper collects his due
Yes! Seeing him on foot, so bitter, so broken
All the paths roll up the lassos of the trails
And there are four ropers, waiting for the old man
As soon as he wants to leave, they'll throw him to the ground
Then those boys approach to defend him
And the slyest one says to him, between trembling and smiling
We all bought your clothes, to save them for you grandpa
Here are your spurs, here is your roan
Another brings him in his arms, just like a child the gear
Another warms his hands with that fringed poncho
Because he keeps giving criollos, very nice criollos, the time!