Amargo

Old gaucho infusion
With raised tuft
The burnt gourd
That serves as your vessel
Has the shape of the hills
Where the cowboy rules
And that resin taste
That is neither bitter nor sweet
It's the kiss that broke
From the lips of some China

The old silver bomb
That appears behind the hill
Like a pointed spear
Embedded in the slope
Thrown so carelessly
It almost seems to wait
For the return of some cuera
Scattered from the gang
That surely is fighting
In some corner of the wilderness

Old mate-chimarrão
Sometimes when I sip you
I feel like I'm engulfed
Right on the back of history
And reviewing memory
I see herds of one color
Wild in a rush
Entangled in the orgy
Of witchcraft spells
When the uncultured sorcerer
Recited the first rite
Of the Pampas liturgy!

In this still lagoon
Full of sticks and foam
Ancestral visions are crossing
One by one
Dances and markings
Conflicts and quarrels
Bugle calls and neighs
Through open fields and ravines
And when you stir up
In your announcing rumble
I hear in the distance the murmur
Of an accordion embellishing
And the north wind whistling
In the fringes of the gaucho's poncho

Green blood of my homeland
When your taste invades me
I feel the need
To see the open sky and fields
It's some mystery for sure
That breaking reins
Makes you buck in the veins
As if the incarnate blood
Had turned green
From the healer of battles

Gaucho essence charrua
Of the primitive Rio Grande
I sip one more, for the stirrup
And head out into the field
Carrying your bitter taste
Engraved in all my being
And one day when I die
God grant me this grace
To breathe my last among the smoke
Of my beloved mate
Because then I will be anointed
With holy water of the race