Galpão Nativo

My old ranch shack
Of the green-yellow pampa
That stood as a sentinel
Of the history of our childhood
You are a landmark in the distance
Of the old captaincy
Because you were the sacristy
Of the gaucho's baptism
When the birth of the homeland
Was taking shape

Built with holy faith
Eight posts, wattle and daub
It almost looks like a chief
All straightened up
The legendary Sepé
Legitimate king on the throne
Who from the first intonation
Carried the homeland in the reins
Announcing to the four winds
That this land had an owner

Old native bivouac
Embedded in the hills
Corral of wooden posts
Of the primitive Rio Grande
Altar of votive fire
That one day the gaucho lit
And remained lit
Embroidered with feathers
Announcing to the tomorrows
That the gaucho did not die

There is nothing like it
Anywhere in the world
Like the deep bond
Of the traditional shack
That ancestral hearth
That nurtures and captivates
In this old fortress
Where the gaucho saw the light
Shack that translates history
As a workshop of the homeland

It was here that those old models
Merged
That served as the reins
Of the homeland they constituted
Of the homeland they built
That's what they set out to do
And never stopped
Because they never stopped
To ask where they came from
Nor how many they were

It was here that they rested
After the warlike struggles
The centaurs of the frontiers
Who, united, shared mate
And it was from here that they marched
The wanderers and the gauchos
Serious black and mulatto men
And wandering Tapé people
Gauchos and bandeirantes
Hemisphere breakers

The great poet Balbino
Marque da Rocha wrote
That the Rio Grande native grew up
Master of his own destiny
Fighting since he was a boy
Raised far from his father
And he is the one who will one day
With bolas and a headband
And brings Brazil in the cinch
To the banks of the Uruguay

This is the shack we cherish
This is the shack we want
This is the shack we raise
And the shack we preserve
As Rui Ramos used to say
Old imposing tribune
A piece of the present
And a piece of the past
And a future rooted
In the depths of our souls

This legend, this story
This story, this legend
Of this rustic dwelling
Of the demarcation struggle
Of the emancipatory struggle
Of the old common homeland
There is no prejudice
In the old rural shack
At whose hearth
There is always room for one more

Courtroom and mess hall
Of maulas and militiamen
Of Charruas and countrymen
Without homeland or territory
Today you are, shack, a repertoire
Of those fraternal talks
And eternal memories
Of the longings that remained
Of the centaurs who shared mate
On your three-legged stumps

But you still have the duty
Old ancestral shack
Legendary cathedral
Of homeland and wide pampa
In the ritual of bitter mate
There is still yerba mate
You are a temple on the plain
Of peace, love, and affection
To light the way
Of the great future homeland

But if there is no open field
Up there when I go
A welcoming shack
Covered with holy faith
A horse grazing nearby
Just thinking about it moves me
I swear by my people
Not even all of heaven can hold me
I return to the old plain
To be a gaucho again