Arpa Que Me Rinde El Sueño

Harp that brings me sleep
What a good thing, damn
Excuse the expression
That my thoughts brought me
But speaking refined
Is very hard for me

Maybe because I'm more of a countryman
True family that I cling to
Artisan and rennet
The one raised with plantains
And dried meat in tatajo
And the one they discover my roots
When I travel

Today I bring up a subject for conversation, buddy
That has me downcast
The day before yesterday I was in life
Flying from branch to branch
Singing and picking fruit
Just like a jay

I traveled all over the plains
Renting like an untamed colt
But time is slowing down
Little by little the wear and tear
And that for a partygoer is a low blow

When I open the door, false and gate
To the colt of memory
Longings come to me
Like putting on complaints
Why don't they play
Traditional dances with good partners

That after one leaves
The hum of the strings
Whisper in the ear
That's when one realizes
That what he speaks he confirms
With the image of a lady
Stuck in his mind

True family that when one is young
And they shake the cement and dislocate
The tiles
One becomes stubborn and doesn't understand
Anything more twisted
Than a fritter, it seems
That his brain went out the window

I'm lucky that over time I gathered
My foundations all in one
Tray
Today I live off memories
With my children and my old lady
Working tirelessly
Like the ant and the bee

Yesterday I went out to the savannah
I stayed looking into the distance
I remembered when I used to ride
A colt with a rope bridle
That I rode and tamed
And was sure with the reins

When I went to the dances, harp that brings me sleep
Among sticks of aged wood
How to forget the girl
With eyes like blue tiles
Who cried saying
Come, let them kill me, I'll leave you

Suddenly a heifer
Passed by my chin with
The grace of a rabbit
I did nothing to catch her
Just looked at her perplexed but I felt
That in my blood it was coming out of my skin

I went to the ranch right away
Old Carmen Castorila
Mulling over your advice
I cried in a corner of the room telling myself
In the mirror
What a thing, Jorge Oncio Hernando
You're getting old