Cuando La Vida Me Nombra

Don't expect reason
born from the belly
it's often an enemy
that gives no truce or breath
but if it's full of wind
it can screw up your life

Like a hobbled cow
pushing against someone else's wire
man has as a brake
more than once, shame
and there's no halter or rope
that holds more serene.

A man who cries in silence
will increase his sorrow
one never knows how much
or if he will find solace
it's not enough to look at the sky
for some saint to help you

Don't count on the money
you'll earn tomorrow
put the desire in your mouth
to change your poor life
if at the first charge
you want to escape the prod

I never saw a straight horse
even though the cinch is even
you can have a reflection
but where the tip comes
the joint tightens
as if to spit on the eyebrow

One has the heart
they say to feel
they say to feel
I don't know if it's worth the account
of the feelings that endure
a heart that doesn't sing
is a heart that bursts

The strength that is apparent
sometimes is not true
not everything comes out
when it has to come out
that's why the heart of waiting
often dies

Man seeks revenge
for everything he lost
but the time he found
and spent and will spend
he will only feel it in the time he lived
because even the time to come
will not serve without conscience
taken from the experience of others and mine
history says so
no matter how much there is interference
no one stops my fate
no matter how much wire there is
I have my soul and may God assist me
and never leave me on foot
if he has given me the best silver
living under his sight

Since he gave me he told me where
every path is made
the light is a trace and a right
and even if I find myself in the shadow
when life calls me
I walk the path of the chest

Have the truth in hand
who depends on breathing
will not find a better pledge
for any need
than a harsh truth
without a muzzle or rein
beaten on the anvil
until the iron comes to reason
even the iron surrenders to the whip
the sharpest belly
but there will always be a doubt
in the middle of the heart
what is the interpretation
that man gives to destiny
perhaps it is a mistake
wanting to know what I am for
a yesterday that brought a today
for an Argentine tomorrow
what good are so many desires
if there is nothing to gallop them
and sometimes to heel them
sorrows throw berijas
and in more than one they huddle
from so much returning to use them

There is no gaucho who does not find sorrows
where he puts his bones
walking badly is an account
that has no terminal
everything different is the same
by the way it bursts

The sky has a storm
when the gaucho is in pain
there are no good hours
or singing streams
the broom does not bloom
if the gaucho has a chain

The man who sings to man
with a true song
is not criminal or tricky
but sometimes by the nickname
with the noose around his neck
he finds no breathing space
there are those who give away chickens
or tie a goat to the leg
and even if you throw the espadrille
you won't get out of the trap
there is the one who prepares the prepo
and the one who waters the sweet potato
the man endures the bad
and walks the good
barefoot among the thorns
or in the softest sand
but the man never knows
where the beginning ends

Sometimes, sometimes I walk in time
so disoriented
that I don't even know why I was raised
if the world is too big for me
and to top it off
I don't even know where the sin ends
that I don't steal, that I don't kill
that I don't steal or kill
that I don't know if I will steal
that I will kill either
and so I spend little by little
the sometimes and the I don't know

The man who has arms
but nothing in the kitchen
will live gathering resentment
for a very clear reason
every arm that stands
is hunger approaching
hunger hurts because of hunger
but it hurts more because of sadness
and there was no and there is no
animal that can stand it
without finally getting up
to go if you haven't left.

How many things you keep
heart for a breath
like a shooting matungo
without a cart on the descent
and if you kick
you go to the last breath
of the winters of the soul
if there will be things to tell
who doesn't have to think
some ensartao memory
or some withered dream
that wants to resurrect

I know my song is sad
instead of being precious
that I enter the thickness of crying
although I don't name it
what song will the man sing
who doesn't know bitterness
several springs ago
I stopped being a boy
and although I walk with a hunched back
because of rheumatism
I have the same heart
even if it lacks a piece

One enters to play the guitar
and gets really hot
and the verse comes out
like murmuring strands
weaving a lullaby
of silence and smoke
the intention is loose
in the hands of a milonga
some strap resounds
from the wind's sucking
and there's a smell of lament
in a sad song

No one should move
a finger to bother
but no one has to be
to get bored at this moment
I have a contract with myself
and I will respect it
every man is worth so much
at the price it takes
money has as a rein
ambition and greed
that's why justice
the blindfold often falls
there is always a boss
sitting in his golden chair
who arranges the imploros
according to the milk of the day
cold-bellied bug
that crushes you even if you're a bull
in a buche chupa
the world can be accommodated
but it can burst
if someone tries to move
there is always someone who prefers to sit
where another wants to sit
there are people for every case
and there is a case for every person
it's a matter of being aware
and seeing where one fits
so that at least the shroud
does not turn out to be insolvent
there is always time to dispose
when it's someone else's wait
time is a gate
with a tremendous lock
and the disposed is on one side
that one feels outside

How the peasant tradition dies slowly
and it hurts like a thorn
that sinks to infinity
each step is a little bit
that is given to the foreigner
each delivery is a hole
that is made to the flag
and the air is a ruin
with a taste of insincere nothing
nights smell like ideas without springs
and chimeras are chewed
where flowers were carried
shadows are the dawns
that the gaucho sees upon waking
you can't shout
without it being a mistake
that being Creole and Argentine
is a reason not to tremble
how the peasant tradition dies slowly
hanging by a thin thread
giving the last cry
does it hurt to feel small
in one's own land
pushed like cattle
to consume the imported
living on borrowed things
desorejado and reyuno
walking the paths
that my brothers walked
one buries oneself in the guano
beyond the linden
confused and tired
the heart of the Creole walks
trying to put the roll together
to throw a lasso even if it's not
some light that can be seen
to get out of so much mess
if one thinks Argentine
without any intention other than being
they think it's a creature from hell
or smells like a skunk
they always talk about destiny
to gather resignation
but I ask for a reason
to the one who promotes dispossession
and has one eye poked out
to look at the nation
peace and war are made
and whatever comes if it's business
and even the sky is a consortium
administered on earth
when God sets up the yoke
because one day it will be
when honor has to be put on the grill
how many males on their knees
we will surely have
questions and more questions
that they ask me and that I do
that no one answered me
and that I must answer
if I must cushion
what I owe to the creator
I must find inside me
all the peace that remains
to see if my mind can
and even entering into rebellion
to sing with the heart
but to sing what it must

No one should arrogate a tiento
from my loin for his gear
by being sincere
I have earned more than one setback
but nothing is worth as much
as this land I love
there is no reason why the voice of an Argentine song
should not be heard
not be afraid of the trill
that is born in one's own land
and not turn it reyuno
no matter how much destiny tightens
the land is often someone else's
but the song must be one's own
the bread is often fasting
and the shame with cold
the water and the river are someone else's
but the song... but the song...
must be one's own
if any reason assists you
there is no need to go to the deck
only one measure fits
and it must fit even if it costs
because there is no worse pest
than untying the belt
that's why I keep going straight
I go slow but I don't stop
I know I have no shelter
if I don't shelter myself
and I even made myself a catechism
with creeds that are very clear
I believe in my God
and in a I believe, I believe in everything I have seen
if I exist to exist
my creed has not lied to me
and not to be resentful
when my joke goes away
nations have been invented
to spread tumult
each one invented its cult,
flag, church, custom
but man, but man...
has rust in the middle of the pardon
however, one must believe in the truth
even if it seems a lie
if even the loin stretches
when the handle holds
how not to believe in the holy truth
if you breathe it
sometimes I look at my children
how they enter life
slowly and without a start
they mix in the tumult
may it be that from that lump
comes a moderate soul
I would like to know
if what I feel is useful
to be free like the wind
to be honorable to the calvary
and use the alphabet
until losing my breath
heart that gallops
through the plain of the chest
what ball will be lurking
to calm your frolic
look how beautiful the sky is
but the slope is very long
above whom there is no other
and below whom there are not so many
above whom there is no other
and below whom there are not so many
giving candles to a saint
to change their luck
suffering for loving you
homeland of a thousand sorrows