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With your permission I will enter
Even though I'm not invited
But in my land a roasted mate
Doesn't belong to anyone and belongs to everyone
I will sing in my own way
After having grilled

I know many will say
That I am daring
If I let my thoughts loose
Towards the path I have chosen
But it has always been like this
Riding against the wind

Blood has reasons
That make the veins swell
Sorrows upon sorrows and sorrows
Make one shout
The sand is just a handful
But there are mountains of sand

I don't know if my song is beautiful
Or if it will come out somewhat sad
I was never a thrush and there is no
More ordinary plumage
I am a corsair bird
That doesn't know birdseed

I fly because I don't crawl
Crawling is ruin
I nest in a thorn tree
Just like in the mountain range
Without listening to the nonsense
Of those who fly like chickens

I don't just approach
The flowery gardens
Without wanting to live warned
Not to step on the stick
There are birds that on their own
Get trapped for being presumptuous

Although I have traveled a lot
Prudence doesn't scare me
It's a false experience
To live trembling at everything
Everyone has their own way
Rebellion is my science

I am one of the crowd
I'm not a greenhouse flower
Just like the wild clover
I grow without making a fuss
I press against the weeds
And that's how I endure the pampero

Accustomed to the mountains
I never get dizzy
And if I feel praised
I leave slowly
But the one who is a show-off
Pays to make a name

If they call me sir
I appreciate the homage
But I am a gaucho among gauchos
And I am nobody among the wise
And the offenses are for me
That are made to the country folk

Vanity is a bad weed
That poisons every garden
It is necessary to be alert
Handling the hoe
But there is no shortage of men
Who water it at their own door

Work is a good thing
It is the best of life
But life is lost
Working on someone else's land
Some work like thunder
And for others it's the rain

The landowner boasts
Of gauchoism and arrogance
He thinks it's extravagant
That his peon lives better
But that gentleman doesn't know
That he has an estate because of his peon

Whoever has money
Does well to take care of it
But if he wants to increase it
He shouldn't turn a deaf ear to the law
Because in every rich stew
The corn turns into moldy kernels

I come from very low
And I'm not very high
To the poor I give my song
That's how I pass content
Because I'm in my element
And there I'm worth what I am

A singer who sings to the poor
Will not be silent even in death
Wherever the song of that Christian
Ends up
There will be no shortage of countrymen
Who will make it resurface

If I have ever sung
Before pot-bellied bosses
I have poked at the deep reasons
Of the poor
I don't betray my own
For applause or money

If one sings love verses
Of colts, of horse tamers
Of the sky and the stars
They say; how beautiful
If he sings it's a delight
But if one like iron
Starts giving opinions
The poor start getting closer
With alert ears
And the rich slams the door
And backs away

Perhaps someone has rolled
As much as I have rolled
But I swear to you, believe me
That I have seen so much poverty
That I thought sadly