O Gaúcho

Reach the fire planes, I want to catch my pipe
Because just as I was telling you, boss, it's always the same game
And as I was about to say to any of those foolish folks
Who have never felt the sun on a hillside
They come with a lot of talk and a bunch of lies

Saying that there are no more gauchos
That the gauchos were our grandparents, were our parents
That the true one no longer exists, it's pure nonsense!
Because they don't know those loudmouths who never got into trouble
Don't even know when the sun warns of drought, can't handle a wild horse's jump
Don't know the wind that brings rain, nor which pasture is harmful

The gaucho must always live, as long as Rio Grande doesn't die
In the fine field, the colt is more beautiful, has more space and encounters
Always wandering around and with shining fur
It's because the herd is pure flower field
The flock grazing on black soil, the wool is more valuable
And Rio Grande is good land

In thirty-five, the gaucho showed what he was worth
Endured the pull, and ninety-three arrived
And how many gauchos appeared and fought and died as no one thought
And they always said, the gaucho is finished!
Then came twenty-three, and what did the gaucho do?
When many countrymen arrived laughing as if in a game
And got involved in the fight, as if entering a brawl

No sir, things got ugly!
How many gauchos left loved ones in their homeland
And whistled to the hillside, and died smiling in the scuffle
As if savoring a bitter taste or taking a sip
In twenty-four the same thing happened
The rodeo was general but only the gaucho stopped

And do you want to know why? It's in the blood of this people
Because the gaucho is like the cinamomo tree, from one root
It sprouts anew and another cinamomo tree will remain standing
It doesn't end, no sir, it will always live beautifully and skillfully
Not even time will defeat him, a gaucho may die but won't be defeated
He's just like stubborn grass, if frost kills in winter
In spring, he returns more vigorous!