Payada das Missões

My brothers of the territory
It's the payador of the missions
Who emerged from the hearths
With his barbaric repertoire
That comes to aid
Of nativism and belief
Singing is more than a disease
Than the evil eye or curse
And I am addicted to singing
And singing if they allow it.

Great-grandson of a chief
Great-grandson of a healer
I bring a brief from the midwife
From the thatched-roof huts
This may justify
This bagual grandeur
Of the singer who when he speaks
Of the sorsal when he sings
Notes sprout from the throat
That even silence falls silent.

And if I was an Indian first
Of this barbaric land
Before being plundered
By the Iberian stranger
After being a missionary
I did not fall without resistance
And in the barbaric dispute
Of the taura - without God, nor law
I settled down
Within my own land.

And if it was taken from me
In a wild ray of light
When the beauty of the cross
Bowed to the force of the sword
Extinguished the sacred flame
That all culture holds
I who was killed in war
In a wild skirmish
I became a gaucho
And was reborn on this land.

Twin brother of Sepé
I returned from afar
Bringing the blessing of a monk
And the last shaman
Who taught me faith
And the signs of the rapids
To calm the struggles
Of the wandering missionary
In the role of a payador
Which is the most creole of all.

Since then, I sing - and singing
I pursue the traveling time
Anywhere there is
A homeland forming
An oppressed person fighting
And a cause abandoned
Without ever falling asleep
Where there are the plundered
Or tyrants possessing
Things that have no owner.

I sing the weeping accordion
And the guitar that plays
The Dalva that shines
When dawn breaks
The horse galloping out the gate
And the gentle ox licking the yoke
I sing the lips of pitanga
That taste like resin
And the sweet body of the girl
Dripping water from the stream.

I sing the herding star
I sing the starry sky
I sing the cattle's bellow
I sing the rural life
I sing the corral tasks
And the calm waters of the pond
And in the instinct of a rough Indian
From the first gospels
I sing the hope of the elders
And the yearnings of youth.

I sing childhood - that plant
That deserves to be cared for
The most delicate plant
That rises in the air
It is the holiest culture
It needs water and warmth
Because God - our lord
Made light, made humidity
So there would be freedom
And from it, the flower would bloom.

I don't like to sing rivers
Dead by the foolish
Nor victims of artifacts
Of human madness
Nor the empty hearts
Of slaves on a leash
And within this context
I don't want to sing again
The ancestors of my people
Beggars selling baskets.

I sing the rising day
I sing the dying afternoon
I sing the flowing stream
And the moon showing its face
And if the world were to end
In a wild tragedy
Even so, I would sing
A world being born from another
Indians taming colts
And women washing the young.

If one day, the overseers
Of the four cardinal points
Burned their arsenals
Sending to cultivate flowers
We, the payadors
Would burn incense
In the temple of the immense pampa
Cradle of the wandering ancestor
Who fought for a kiss
And died for a handkerchief.