Baio Kilero

He changed my zaino's ear
When I won the cattle
The silence was interrupted
By the sound of the spur

It seems like the pampa cries
Watching the stretched bay
And over the horse's crosses
The patrol shortened the hours

The wind rocks the mane
As if to toast a gallop
And the flute of the grasslands
Plays the procession of death

The sun imitates a host
On the altar of the cattle
Tent and widows by the fences
Silent and in a row

The bay kilero has left
To make his last journey
Rice, tobacco, and all the gear
He carried, crossing nights
Without saddle, nor whips
Without his bags hanging
The bay kilero has left
To cross the last trail!

The fur waits for the dew
Brother of many journeys
And the tangled japecangas
Were shrinking the thorns

The weaver who made a nest
Using the bay's mane
Today failed in the work
He's tame, quiet, and alone

The bay kilero has left
Slowly, in a gentle step
He crossed the milicada at a trot
That always walked fast

He no longer has weight and gear
Nor the gaze of the milicada
Alone, by the trail
He's gone, he's gone, the bay kilero!