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With permission to enter
Although I am not invited,
But in my payment, a asao
It doesn't belong to anyone and it belongs to everyone.
I saw singing my way
After there is churrasquiao.

I have no god to ask for
Quartered on this occasion,
I can't even ask for forgiveness
If you love it, there's no mistake;
I'll see when it's over,
But that is another question.

I know that many will say
What a dare
If I long my thought
Pal direction that I already chose,
But I have always been like this:
Galloper against the wind.

I have that in my blood
From my great-great-grandfather.
People on the ground
They were my ancestors;
Creoles from four provinces
And with mixed Indians.

My grandfather was a carter,
My dad was a tamer;
Doctor was never sought
Well, they were cured with weeds,
Or listening to the murmurs
In a style of my flower.

Like a good country ranch
There was never a lack of a string,
Of those that seem like nothing
But they are dreamers.
According to the song and the time
The soul was exhausted.

My dad was knowledgeable
Because of how much it has filmed.
And after he had sung
He looked fourth and first,
And he put a poncho over him
"so he doesn't talk too much..."

Blood has reasons
That make the veins fat.
Sorrow upon sorrow and sorrow
They make you scream.
The sand is a handful
But there are mountains of sand

I don't know if my singing is pretty
Or if it will come out half sad;
I was never a thrush, nor does it exist
More ordinary plumage.
I am a corsair bird
Who doesn't know birdseed.

I fly because I don't crawl,
That crawling is ruin;
Nest in thorn tree
The same as in mountain ranges
Without listening to the nonsense
The kind that flies like a chicken.

I don't just get close like that
To the flower gardens.
Without wanting to live upside down
To avoid stepping on the stick.
There are birds that are alone
They get trapped because they are presumptuous.

Although I have suffered a lot
Prudence does not shackle me.
It's a false experience
Live trembling at everything.
Everyone has their way;
Rebellion is my belief.

I was born poor and I live poor
That's why I'm delicate.
I am with those of my side
Cinching even tweets
To make new what is old
And see the world change.

I am one of those of the lot,
I am not a hothouse flower.
I am like the pampero clover,
I grow without making a fuss,
I press myself against the weeds
And that's how I put up with the pampero.

Get used to the mountains
I never know how to get dizzy,
And if I feel praise
I'm going slowly.
But he who is a buddy
Pay to be named.

If someone calls me sir,
I appreciate the tribute;
But I am a gaucho among gauchaje
And I am nothing among the wise.
And the grievances are for me
What they do to the countryman.

Vanity is bad weed
That poisons every garden.
You need to be alert
Wielding the hoe,
But the man is not missing
That waters it even at your door.

Work is a good thing,
It's the best of life;
But life is lost
Working in another's field.
Some work like thunder
And the rain is for others.

I worked in a quarry
Of sharpening stones.
Forty knew how to pay
For every polished stone,
And it was sold for six pesos
In terms of negotiating.

The sun was barely rising
It was already hammered,
And between two hugs
With the piegrones sizes,
And for those molds
Hands torn to pieces.

I was a baker again
And an axeman in a quebrachal;
I have carried blocks of salt
And I have also peeled canes,
And a handful of other feats
For my good or for my bad.

Searching to disarm myself
I was a clerk;
The fine print made
To not waste sellao,
And it was also tight
The salary he received.

Tired of so many miseries
I left for Tucumán.
Lapacho, alder, myrtle,
And an ax with the carob trees.
for two fifty! It was robbery
So that one has that desire.

Without being fixed in a lao
He did all the work,
And so it happened that one day
That he was having fun
I came across a harness
It came from where it jumps.

I had the urge to walk
And I told the foreman,
And just like that, all of a sudden.
The man asked me:
do you have a mule? How not
I told. And hunger, too.

A week after that
It covered mountain ranges,
Skirts, slopes and slopes
Always facing the west,
Drinking spring water
And holding on to the soles.

Maybe another one will have rolled
As much as I have rolled,
And I swear, believe it,
I have seen so much poverty,
That I thought with sadness:
God did not pass by here.

A cow fell off our back
Because of the closure,
And prayer caught us
Cueriando and making asao;
Since that day, brother-in-law,
I spent my money.

I shook off the frost
When I came down from the Andes,
And I walked in large rooms
Taking care of some couples;
Trumpet, cap and hat,
But for the peons, go ahead.

The laborers, out in the open,
The boss, in good spirits.
We, the cu...It in the air
With wet caronas,
And the winter estate
More dazzling than a friar.

The rancher had
Also its cane fields,
And in the autumn times
We gathered the rags,
And no we were going down
Leaving the rocky terrain.

There they piled us up
In batch with other Creoles,
Everyone was looking for a hole
Go quinchar your lair,
And we spent our lives
Rigoriate and without support.

Missing, nothing was missing:
Wine, coffee and espadrilles.
If I have stirred my legs
In cats and farms.
Things were just fierce
When going to collect the cans.

What an uneven life!
Everything is ruin and humbug;
Peeling cane is a feat
From the one that was born out of rigor.
There was only one sweetness
And it was inside the cane.

It was a consolation for the poor
Go fucking around with vinacho.
Big men and boys
As cursed in life,
Slaves to drink
They were drunk.

sad Sundays of the groove
The ones I have seen and lived!
Spread out and fall asleep
In the sand they dawned,
Maybe they would dream
With death or oblivion...

Riojans and Santiago residents,
Salteños and Tucumans,
With the machete in hand
They turned over mature reeds,
Passing their bitterness
And holding on like brothers.

roofed ranch with maloja,
Fighter's home!
In the midst of that rigor
There was no missing vihuela,
with which the poor console themselves
Singing love songs.

Me too, since Chango
United with singing I grew up,
More than a cheap one I ordered
And for the piones he sang.
what happened to them
It happened to me too!

When I learned to sing
I assembled with few rolls
And on the bank of a stream
Under the branches of a willow,
I grew up looking in the riverbed
My poor Creole dreams.

When I felt joy,
When the pain hit me,
When a doubt bit
My countryman's heart,
From the bottom of the plains
A song came and healed me...

In those times they passed
Things that no longer happen.
Everyone had a song
Or evening song.
Ways to heal the wound
That bleeds in the bustle.

Some sang well.
Others, poor, more or less...
But they were not foreign songs,
Although they didn't have a brand.
And everyone was entertained
Guitarizing until sleeplessness.

A teacher came over there,
From those literate townspeople;
Gathered troops and versiaos
Then they went to a bookstore,
And the man lined the sack
With what others have thought.

The pawns form the verses
With his old pains.
Then come the gentlemen
With a notebook in hand,
They copy the countryman's song
And they brag about writers.

The Creole takes care of his freight,
His guitar and his wife;
He feels that he faces a duty
Every time he shakes hands;
And although everything is baquiano
Only the song has to lose.

couplets that accompanied it
In the deserted ravines,
Aromas of dead flowers
And of lived homelands,
were the light on
For your awake nights!...

It grieves if it is lost
A muzzle, a handler,
But he doesn't feel anger
If when listening to a trova,
A townsman comes and robs him
His best love song.

Surely, if one thinks,
He finds the knot in the skein,
Because the oldest couplet,
Like the root of life,
It has the soul for its lair,
Which is where complaints nest.

That's why the man when singing
With true emotion,
He throws his sorrow away
So that the winds take her,
And so, even for a moment
His embarrassment is relieved.

It's not that he doesn't love his trova
Nor do I despise his singing.
It's like when a breakdown
In the night of the plains
It makes the countryman loosen up
And the wind carries his tears.

In matters of singing,
Life is teaching us
that just flies away
The couplet that is light.
Always hunt for popcorn
Anyone who is hunting...

But if the song is protest
Against the boss's law,
He crawls from pawn to pawn
In a deep murmur,
And marches at the level of the weeds
Like a snap in a malón.

A thousand trovas can be lost
Let your wishes be sung,
Verses of happiness, pleasures,
Racing and amusements;
sighs of hearts
And lyrical sufferings.

But if the song counts
From the countryman the history,
Go the laborer, turn over the ferris wheel
Of the miseries suffered,
that one stays on
Like a caltrop in memory!

What made us happy
Maybe it can be forgotten;
The years in their passing
The thoughts will change,
But anguish and torment
They are brands that must last...

These things that I think
They don't come out by chance.
To form my hope
I chew before swallowing.
It's been a long ride
That's where I got the warning.

If one plays the guitar
To sing couplets of love,
Of foals, of tamer,
Of the mountains and the stars,
They say: what a beautiful thing!
If he sings, it's a beauty!

But if one, like iron,
That's where he leaves his opinion,
The poor thing is getting closer
With ears alert,
And the rich man sees the door
And he backs away.

You must draw your melga well
Whoever considers himself a singer,
Because only the imposter
It fits in every footprint.
Let him choose a single star
Whoever wants to be a sower...

In the process of choosing
Let the man look inside,
Here the meetings are made
Of thoughts and feelings.
After you pull, pull,
With conscience at the center.

There are different piles,
Some big and some small.
If it goes to the rich man's pile
The poor man who thinks little,
Behind the mistakes
The harmful ones are coming.

I come from very low,
And I'm not very high up.
To the poor I give my song
And so I am happy,
Cause I'm in my element
And there I am worth what I am.

If I have ever returned I have sung
Before paunchy bosses,
I have identified the reasons
Deep of poverty.
I do not betray mine
By palms or patacones.

Although I sing in every direction,
I have a preferred direction.
I always sang shaken
The pains of the countryman,
Exploitation and outrage
From my beloved brothers.

So that things would change
I looked for direction and got lost;
At the same time, I realized
And I took the right path.
First of all, Argentine;
And I followed my flag...!

I am from the north and the south,
From the plain and the coast,
And no one takes it the wrong way
If there are a thousand grams in the kilo.
Come on, I'm calm
But saddle up, I'm bagual.

The singer must be free
To develop your knowledge.
Without seeking convenience
Nor enlist with godfathers.
Of those dark paths
I already have the experience.

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

And I don't sing to tyrants
Not even by order of the boss.
The rogue and the trapalón
Let them take care of themselves
With purchased payers
And lounge singers.

By the strength of my song
I know cell and prison.
With unparalleled fierceness
More than once I was beaten
And I throw him into the dungeon
Like a jar in the garbage dump.

You can kill a man
They can stain your face,
Your guitar singe,
But the ideal of life,
That's lit firewood
That no one has to turn off.

The bad guys are rising
Everything they find out there;
Like grains of corn
They sow the worst examples,
And the temple collapses
Of the decency of the country.

Behind the noise of gold
The maulas go as hacienda;
There is no lazy person who does not sell
For a dirty coin;
But always in my land it remains
Gauchaje to defend her.

Singer who sings to the poor
Not even dead people should be silent.
Well, go ahead and stop
The song of that Christian,
The countryman must not be missing
Let him resurrect him.

The rancher boasts
Of gauchism and arrogance.
He thinks it's extravagance
May your pawn live better,
But that man doesn't know
That because of his pawn he has a stay.

He who has his real
You do very well in taking care of them;
But if you want to increase them
Let the law not be deaf,
That in every fat pout
The corn turns brown.

A return, without work,
I was walking through Tucumán,
And in an inn, they go
Early morning singers,
I approached for the payday
Which has always been my desire.

Although missing the mount
I took up an instrument.
And after some time
I gave the door to a baguala,
With a thin couplet
The kind that the winds carry.

Maybe it was the guitar.
as cute as it sounded!
my heart was soaring
Sadness of the roads
And I cursed it to fate
How much pain it gave me.

A man approached me
And he said to me: what are you doing here?
Trip to the big city
That there they will understand it;
there he will have fame, pleasure
And money to give away.

Why would I have listened to it!
Yes, it was the voice of the Mandinka!
Buenos Aires, gringo city,
He had me very tight,
Tweets seemed to me to be a waste
Like body to the syringe.

And I didn't come poor
Well, I was wearing new espadrilles;
The old ones for when it rains
I put them in the saddlebag;
Gray pants
And a sack pulling a lever.

Jumping from radio to radio
I walked, I figured,
I spent four months
In failed games;
No one assured anything,
And I was left without money.

I sold my pretty saddlebags,
My guitar, I sold it!
In my poverty, woe is me,
I would have liked to save it,
It cost me so much to buy it,
But in the end, I lost everything.

vihuela, where are you going,
What hands are touching you!
Whole nights thinking
Even as a consolation,
Let it be a song of this soil
What they are taking from you...!

When the corn is fallow
It has a bright color;
The strands, like a nylon
They show off with their niceties.
But they bow their heads
If the coal grabs them.

The same thing happened to me
In those gone times;
Young, strong, conceited,
And when the cheese was gone,
I returned in a sad return
The soul is populated with oblivion.

Youth things...
Damn, where are you going!
Aura, I'm crazy
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 pleasure.

But I didn't waste time,
As I saw it later,
Because I knew well what it is like
The life of the countrymen.
I felt like a brother to all of them,
The right and upside down.

I always remember the times
In what beauty I spent,
The hills that I crossed
Looking for what I couldn't find,
And sometimes I even stayed
Through those fields on foot.

Life taught me
What a guitar is worth;
I went to parties for her
Maybe made a mess,
And the vice almost caught me
With its invisible claws.

Thank goodness I have it inside
What the earth gave me:
Homeland, race or what do I know,
But he was saving me,
And so, I kept walking
By the ways of God.

The thing was to think
That when pressing an instrument
You have to give with feeling
All the country force,
But no one goes outside
If it doesn't have anything inside.

The guitar is a hollow stick
And to touch something good
The man must be full
Of internal clarity,
To sow eternal couplets
Life is a good terrain.

If praying brings comfort
To whom he needs consolation,
Just like a Christian at mass
O matrero in the middle of the mountain,
I pray on the horizons
When the afternoon is dying.

The pampa remains silent
When the light goes out,
The chajá and the ostrich
They are looking for the thicket
And it grows on the plain
The loneliness of the ombú.

So, just like a poncho,
The earth surrounds one,
From the plain to the mountains
A shadow is spreading
And the soul is understanding
The things that the world contains.

There is the right moment
To think about destiny,
If the man is a pilgrim,
If you are looking for love or 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 caronero facons
Or with sugarcane machetes
That when they saw them they made us tremble.

The countryman rarely kills
Because he doesn't have that instinct.
He agrees to the Creole duel
Not to back down even a step,
He makes it known that he is not one-handed
And in the fight he entertains himself.

There is no bloodthirsty mountain
Not even a conversationalist,
The most capable tamer
He never tells of his exploits
And they are not tempted by the cane
Because tintillo is better.

Every payment is added
To a way of fighting
And whoever wants to be pretty
You will have to reverse first
That to be able to leave
You have to learn to go inside.

They fight with fists
Just like anywhere
But it is a separate license
Use payment methods
There the drink gets fierce
As Don Narvarte said.

Cordobés, for the stone,
Riojano for the rebencazo,
Chilean for the horse,
Salteño with dagger in hand
And the Tucumán is a king
To fight with headbutts.

The Creole always has to fight
At night and a half machao;
It's a shame brother-in-law
That sometimes for a prickly pear
Moonlit nights become cloudy
And starry skies.

A song comes easy
When one wants to sing,
A matter of seeing and thinking
About the things of the world.
If the river is wide and deep
Who knows how to swim crosses.

May others sing joys
If they have lived happily,
that I have also known
Fall asleep in those deceptions
But the years have been more
Of blows received.

No one can point me out
What a bitter song I sing,
If I have happened what I have happened
I want to serve as a warning,
Rolling will not be
But it is not a sin either.

I have walked through the world,
I have crossed lands and seas
Without borders that stop me
And in any lair
I have sung, dear land!
Your joys and your sorrows.

Sometimes they fell into song,
Like a vacation to the water,
To listen to my verses
Men of all winds,
Braiding your feelings
To the beat of a string.

Woe to him who does not know
Of the song the beauties,
Life, the darkest,
The one who has the most brokenness,
You will always find in the song
Consolation for your sadness.

They say they don't have a song
The rivers that are deep
But I learned in this world
Whoever has more depth
He sings better because he is deep
And he makes honey from his bitterness.

With the bumps in the road
They come in to twist the loads,
But it is the law that in a long footprint
They will have to accommodate
And the one who forgets
They must have a bitter time.

Friends, I'm going to leave,
My part is done
In the preferred way
From a pampas milonga,
I sang plainly
Certain things in my life.

Ahura I'm leaving, I don't know where,
For me, every direction is good,
The fields, even though they are foreign
I cross them at a gallop,
I don't need a lair
I know how to sleep at night.

There is always some tapera
At the foot of a mountain range
And as long as this war continues
Of injustices for me,
I have to think from there
Songs for my land.

And even if they take my life
Or shackle my freedom
And although they may burn
My guitar in the kitchen,
My songs must live
In the souls of others.

Don't tell me what a sin it is
And don't comment on my trills,
I am leaving with my destiny
P'al lao where the sun is lost;
Maybe someone will remember
That an Argentinian sang here.

end