Yo No Discuto Con Dios

Spoken.
I don't argue with God;
He knows what he's doing, but
today he went too far
and hit me even on the ground...

Sung.
Right away, he cut the rope,
and the braiding, no less,
a black bull that was walking
since yesterday with boiling dung.
On top of that, the bayo gored me
when it came at us
and almost lifted me
up between the horns.
Then the cinch loosened
when I leaned in a meeting,
and I ended up plowing by force
a few meters on the ground.
Luckily, in the fall
I didn't break any bones.
Instead, I tore the blanket,
lost an almost new knife,
and made a cut of a hand and a half
on one knee.

Spoken.
After a short nap,
which somewhat fixed my body,
I tightened the belt to death,
drank a dry brandy,
and to walk more securely,
saddled my old overo,
with which I held on until the end
without letting go even a hair.
When one is having a bad time,
there's no need for half measures
but to drink until the end,
even knowing it's dead!
That's how I earned a break,
fighting like an Indian on the ground,
until, back at the ranch,
the poor overo stepped wrong,
and in a cursed hole
it was irreparably injured.
I arrived with the night closed,
beaten and dead tired,
and it was already ten at the latest,
because my father-in-law had told me
the news that at five
my wife took the express train
and left, who knows where,
without even saying goodbye.

Sung.
I should have known
the grapes of my vineyard,
since, after a month of being with her,
she threw me a lasso with the story
that the task was mine,
that she already had it in fallow;
but if this had happened yesterday,
today I would move heaven and earth
searching for her blinded
to make an example.
Instead, today all I did
was tell the poor old man:

Spoken.
She left? And for so little, old man,
the first dream is lost?
And in a cornfield of troubles,
what does one more corn do?

Sung.
Luckily, she left me the boy
who, even though he's not mine, I love him.
The blanket will be the poor orphan's
blanket this winter.

Spoken.
The leg doesn't worry me:
it will mend itself.
I have another knife. From the bayo,
maybe it's not even good for leather.
The rope was left where it failed, and the overo,
lame and all, by noble right,
deserves to die of old age.

Sung.
May she fare well
and indulge without fear.
Although she ruined my planting,
I don't water it with blood.

Spoken.
That's why I don't argue
with God, but sometimes I think
Did he mistake me for someone else
or did they go with tales?