Cemitério de Campanha

Field cemetery
Black herd of crosses
Where strange lights at night
Sadly flicker
Even the cattle itself feels
In your deep mystery
That you are a piece of the world
In another different world

Certain resting place of humans
End of earthly calvary
Where the great and the small
Unite in one world
And where the sighs of pity
Mean nothing
Because in you the living remain
Dissolved in the same dust

Even the air you breathe
Warm, sad, and heavy
Has a smell of the past
That was and will not return
Your voice is the sighs
Of the wind whimpering
Eternally praying
Gaucho funerals

Crowns, candle stumps
With blackened wicks
That in poorly attended rosaries
Burned halfway
Ugly-looking crosses
Of someone who lived in suffering
And after rolling around
Returns to the ground where they came from

But what does the difference matter
Between a hewn cross
And the marble tomb
Of someone who lived in opulence?
What does the cross of poverty matter
To someone who no longer lives
If we are all the same
After existence ends?

What does the fine crown matter
And the beeswax candle?
If among the posts of your pen
Nothing else matters?
An owner, a ranch hand
A doctor, a maiden?
Everything, everything levels out
In insignificance

That's why when I dismount
In a countryside cemetery
I always pray first
Next to the unmarked cross
For in the machete-made cross
That disappears into the earth
I see the nameless gauchos
Who tamed this land

And I understand, cemetery
That you are the final stop
On the unexplored road
That leads to the afterworld
And you shine in the same light
Those who didn't have
And those who didn't want
A cross on their grave

And I visit, one by one
In the sad and calm silence
From the half-palm cross
To the richest mausoleum
Then, tipping my hat
I walk away, pondering aimlessly
Will someone do the same
When I go riding in the sky?