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With permission I will enter
Although I am not invited
But in my land, a barbecue
It's not for anyone and it's for everyone
I will sing in my own way
After I have grilled

I have no God to ask
Quartered on this occasion
Nor can I ask for forgiveness
If I haven't done wrong yet
I'll see when it's over
But that's another matter

I know many will say
That I sin with daring
If I let my thoughts loose
Towards the path I have chosen
But I have always been like this
Galoping against the wind

I carry that in my blood
Since my great-great-grandfather
People with feet on the ground
Were my ancestors
Creoles from four provinces
And mixed with indigenous people

My grandfather was a cart driver
My father was a horse tamer
They never sought a doctor
As they healed with herbs
Or listening to the whispers
Of a style of my flower

Like a good country ranch
There was never a lack of a gathering
Of those that seem like nothing
But are dreamy
According to the song and the hour
The soul was soothed

My father was knowledgeable
From all that he had traveled
And after he had sung
He would detune the fourth and fifth
And throw a poncho over
So he wouldn't talk too much

Blood has reasons
That make the veins swell
Sorrow upon sorrow and sorrows
Make one shout
The sand is a handful
But there are mountains of sand

I don't know if my song is beautiful
Or if it's somewhat sad
I was never a songbird, nor does
A more ordinary plumage exist
I am a corsair bird
That doesn't know birdseed

I fly because I don't crawl
Crawling is ruin
I nest in a thorn tree
Just like in the mountains
Without listening to the nonsense
Of those who fly like chickens

I don't just approach
The flowery gardens
Without wanting to live warned
Not to step on the stick
There are birds that on their own
Get trapped by being presumptuous

Although I have suffered a lot
Prudence doesn't hold me back
It's a false experience
To live trembling at everything
Everyone has their own way
Rebellion is my science

I was born poor and live poor
That's why I'm delicate
I'm with those on my side
All pulling equally
To make new what is old
And see the world changed

I am one of the crowd
I'm not a hothouse flower
I'm like the pampas clover
I grow without making noise
I press against the weeds
And withstand the pampero

Accustomed to the mountains
I never get dizzy
And if I feel praised
I leave slowly
But the one who is a compadre
Pays to make himself known

If someone calls me sir
I appreciate the homage
But I am a gaucho among gauchos
And I am nothing among the wise
And the offenses are for me
That are made to the country folk

Vanity is a bad weed
That poisons every garden
One must be alert
Handling the hoe
But there is always a man
Who waters it even at his door

Work is a good thing
It's the best of life
But life is lost
Working on someone else's land
Some work like thunder
And it's for another's benefit

I worked in a quarry
Of sharpening stones
Forty knew how to pay
For each polished stone
And they were sold for six pesos
In that business

As soon as the sun rose
I was already hammering
And between two hugs
With the big sizes
And because of those molds
My hands were in pieces

Another time I was a baker
And a lumberjack in a quebracho forest
I carried salt blocks
And I also peeled sugar cane
And a handful of other feats
For my good or my bad

Seeking to educate myself
I was a clerk's assistant
I wrote the small letters
To not waste stamps
And the salary I received
Was also tight

Tired of so much misery
I left for Tucumán
Lapacho, alder, myrtle
And axe with the carob trees
One fifty! It was a robbery
For one to have that zeal

Without being fixed in one place
I did every job
And it happened one day
When I was a benteveo
I came across a herd
Coming from Salta

I felt like walking
And I made a deal with the foreman
And just like that
The man asked me
Do you have a mule? Of course
I said and hunger, too

A week after that
I was climbing mountains
Slopes, hills and ridges
Always towards the west
Drinking spring water
And enduring the heat

Maybe another has traveled
As much as I have
And I swear, believe me
That I have seen so much poverty
That I thought with sadness
God did not pass through here

A cow fell off a cliff
Due to the steepness
And we were caught praying
Skinning and making barbecue
Since that day, brother-in-law
My knife has worn out

I shook off the frost
When I descended from the Andes
And I worked on large estates
Taking care of some pairs
Trumpet, cover and hat
But for the laborers, from where

The laborers, in the open field
The boss, in Buenos Aires
We, with our necks exposed
With wet hats
And the livestock in winter
Shinier than a friar

The rancher also had
His sugar cane fields
And in the autumn times
We gathered the rags
And we went down
Leaving the rocky areas

There they piled us up
In a lot with other Creoles
Each one found a hole
To build their shelter
And we spent our lives
Rigorously and without support

Nothing was missing
Wine, coffee and espadrilles
If I haven't turned my feet
In cats and chacareras
It was only fierce
When going to collect the cans

What an uneven life!
Everything is meanness and deceit
Peeling sugar cane is a feat
For those born for hardship
There was only one sweetness
And it was inside the cane

It was a comfort for the poor
To walk around smelling of wine
Grown men and boys
Like damned in life
Slaves to drink

Sad Sundays in the furrow
The ones I have seen and lived!
Scattered and asleep
On the sand they woke up
And at best they would dream
Of death or oblivion

People from La Rioja and Santiago
People from Salta and Tucumán
With a machete in hand
They cut ripe sugar cane
Enduring the bitterness
And standing as brothers

Thatched roof with bad straw
Home of the peeler!
In the midst of that rigor
There was never a vihuela
With which the poor found solace
Singing love ballads

I, who grew up with singing
Since I was a child
I asked for a cheap one
And sang for the laborers
What happened to them
Also happened to me!

When I learned to sing
I played with a few rolls
And on the bank of a stream
Under the branches of a willow
I grew up looking at
My dreams as a poor Creole

When I felt joy
When a pain struck me
When a doubt bit
My peasant heart
From the depths of the plains
A song came and healed me

In those times things happened
That no longer happen
Each one had a song
Or a night verse
Ways to heal the wound
That bleeds in the journey

Some sang well
Others, poor, more or less
But they were not foreign songs
Although they had no mark
And they all entertained
Strumming until dawn

Sometimes a maestro approached
One of those literate townsfolk
He gathered a troop and some verses
That later went into a book
And the man lined his pocket
With what others had thought

The laborers made verses
With their ancient pains
Then come the gentlemen
With a notebook in hand
They copy the country song
And boast of being writers

The Creole takes care of his gear
His guitar and his woman
He feels he faces a duty
Every time he shakes hands
And although he is a veteran
Only the song will be lost

In the process of choosing
The man must look inside
Where encounters are made
Of thoughts and feelings
After throwing wherever he throws
With conscience at the center

There are different heaps
Some big and some small
If he goes to the rich heap
The poor man who thinks little
Behind the misunderstandings
Come the perjurers

I come from very low
And I am not very high
To the poor I give my song
And so I pass content
Because I am in my element
And there I am worth for what I am

If I have sung before
In front of pot-bellied bosses
I have poked at the deep reasons
Of the poor
I do not betray my own
For applause or coins

Although I sing in every direction
I have a preferred direction
I have always sung moved
The sorrows of the country folk
The exploitation and abuse
Of my beloved brothers

For things to change
I sought a direction and got lost
Over time, I realized
And I took the right path
Before anything else, Argentine
And I followed my flag!

I am from the north and the south
From the plain and the coast
And no one should take offense
If there are a thousand grams in a kilo
Wherever I am, I am calm
But saddled, I am wild

The singer must be free
To develop his science
Without seeking convenience
Or aligning with godfathers
Of those dark paths
I already have the experience

I sing, because they are ancient
Songs that are eternal
And even seem modern
For what we see in them
With the song we cover ourselves
To warm the winters

I don't sing to tyrants
Nor in favor of the boss
The scoundrel and the cheat
Let them sort it out on their own
With paid troubadours
And salon singers

By the force of my song
I know cell and prison
With unmatched fierceness
More than once I was beaten
And thrown into the dungeon
Like a jar in the trash

A man approached me
And said: What are you doing here?
Travel to the big city
They will understand you there
You will have fame, pleasure
And money to give away

For what did I listen to him!
It was the voice of Mandinga!
Buenos Aires, a gringo city
Had me very tight
Everyone moved aside
Like a body to the syringe

And that I didn't come poor
Because I brought new espadrilles
The old ones for when it rains
I put them in the saddlebag
A grayish pair of pants
And a coat leaning towards gray

Jumping from radio to radio
I walked, imagine
I spent four months
In failed ventures
No one guaranteed anything
And I was left without money

I sold my saddlebags
My guitar, I sold it!
In my poverty, woe is me
I would have liked to keep it
So much that it cost me to buy it!
But in the end I lost everything

Viola, where are you
What hands are playing you
Eternal nights thinking
At least as a consolation
That it is a song of this land
That they are tearing from you!

When the corn is in fallow
It shines brightly
The strands, like nylon
Show off their beauty
But they bow their heads
If they are caught by coal

The same thing happened to me
In those bygone times
Young, strong, presumptuous
And when the cheese ran out
I returned in a sad return
My soul filled with forgetfulness

Youthful things!
Where are you now?
Now that I am disoriented
From changing my hair so much
I remember those sleepless nights
But I don't look back

I returned to Tucumán
Again to suffer
And in that of walking and seeing
Many years passed
Between sorrows, disappointments
Hopes and pleasures

But it was not wasted time
As I saw later
Because I knew well what the life of the country folk is like
I felt like a brother to all
In good times and bad

I always remember the times
When I stumbled or passed
The hills I crossed
Looking for what I couldn't find
And sometimes I stayed
In those fields on foot

Life taught me
The value of a guitar
Through it I went to parties
Perhaps causing a commotion
And I almost got caught in the vice
With its invisible claws

Luckily I carry inside
What the earth gave me
Homeland, race or what do I know
But what saved me
And so, I kept walking
On God's paths

Things were about thinking
That when playing the instrument
You must play with feeling
All the rural strength
But no one lets out
If they have nothing inside

The guitar is a hollow stick
And to play something good
The man must be full
Of internal clarities
To sow eternal verses
Life is a good field!

If praying brings comfort
To those who need it
Just like a Christian in mass
Or a outlaw in the wilderness
I pray on the horizons
When the evening is dying

The pampas fall silent
When the light is absent
The crested screamer and the ostrich
Go looking for the thickets
And the loneliness of the ombú
Grows in the plain

Then, like a poncho
The earth envelops a person
From the plain to the mountain
A shadow spreads
And the soul begins to understand
The things the world holds

That is the right moment
To think about destiny
If man is a pilgrim
Or seeks love and affection
Or if he fulfills the sentence
Of dying on the roads

In the North I saw things
That I will never forget
I saw gauchos fight
With sharp knives
Or with sugar cane machetes
That made them tremble

Rarely does a countryman kill
Because that instinct is not there
The Creole duel is settled
To not take a step back
It shows that he is not weak
And in fighting he entertains himself

There is no bloodthirsty mountain man
Or a chatty Indian
The most capable horse tamer
Never tells his feats
And the cane doesn't tempt him
Because the purple is better

Each region is fond
Of a way to fight
And whoever wants to show off
Must first realize
That to know how to get out
You must learn how to get in

They fight with punches
Just like anywhere else
But it is a separate science
To use the ways of the land
There the drink gets bitter
As Don Narvarte said

The Cordobese, for the brawl
The Riojan, for the fight
The Chilean, for the horse
The Salteño, with a dagger in hand
And the Tucuman is a king
For fighting with headbutts

The Creole must always fight
At night and half drunk
It's a shame, brother-in-law
That sometimes for a prickly pear
Nights of the Moon
And starry skies are clouded

A song comes easily
When one wants to sing
A matter of seeing and thinking
About the things of the world
If the river is wide and deep
The one who knows how to swim crosses

Let others sing joys
If they have lived joyfully
I have also known
To fall for those deceptions
But the years of suffering
Have been more

No one can point out
That I sing out of bitterness
If I have gone through what I have
I want to serve as a warning
The journey may not be science
But it is not a sin either

I have walked the world
I have crossed lands and seas
Without borders to stop me
And in any shelter
I have sung, beloved land
Your joys and sorrows

Sometimes they fall for the song
Like cattle to the watering hole
To hear my verses
Men from all winds
Braiding their feelings
To the rhythm of the guitar

Pity the one who doesn't know
The beauty of the song
Life, the darkest
The one with the most hardships
Will always find in the song
Comfort for their sadness

They say that a river without song
Is one that is deep
But I learned in this world
That the one with the most depth
Sings better because they are deep
And make a thousand of their bitterness

With the bumps of the road
The loads start to twist
But it is a law that in the long trail
They must adjust
And the one who reaches forgetfulness
Will have to go through bitterness

Friends, I am going to leave
My part is fulfilled
In the preferred form
Of a pampas milonga
I sang in a straightforward way
Certain things of life

Now I am leaving, I don't know where
For me every direction is good
The fields, even if they are foreign
I cross them at a gallop
I don't need a shelter
I know how to sleep in the open

There is always an abandoned house
On the slope of a mountain
And as long as this war continues
Of injustices for me
I will think from there
Songs for my land

And even if they take my life
Or shackle my freedom
And even if they burn perhaps
My guitar in the bonfires
My songs will live
In the souls of others!

Don't mention me, it's a sin
And don't comment on my trills!
I am leaving with my destiny
To where the Sun sets
Perhaps someone will remember
That here sang an Argentine!