Misterio

It was a beautiful memory
The memory of the old man
To tell stories
From who knows what time
While the wild horse ran the wheel
And the pampero got tangled in the ombú tree

But it had to be tamed
To pull it out of silence
If he plowed his forehead
With his furrows frowning
And in the dark mirror of his pupils
Certain memories lit up

Because then on his lips
Trembling and dry
The grumble whispered
Like a spirited colt
And from one side to the other of his mouth
The black tobacco cigarette calmed

Sometimes he alone
Started the stories
That the gauchos of the area
Silently picked up
Seeing the tormented youth of the old man
Resurrecting, like a spell

Child in the Great War
Young man during Quinteros
Soldier in the Quebracho's
And wounded in the Cerro's
Where a leader raised the poncho
There he was, risking his life

His eyes were to be seen
Half asleep from dreams
Burning like embers
From the hearth's coal
When putting on the borsalino hat
He told about fights and skirmishes

The kids, hearing him
Silent and trembling
Felt the fiery
Blood of the race
Running through their veins
And asked the old man for the end of the story

But the girls would come
Peeking with respect
With which the gauchos listened
To the craziness of the tale
And, without knowing why, over the eyelids
Of the old storyteller, sleep would fall

And his lips, contracted
With a gesture of disdain
Spoke of a braid
Cut in front of the leather
And of an unfortunate and sad love
And of an inexplicable and stubborn disdain