De Habrarle A La Soledad

With a darkened mouth
from so much strong smoking,
and a pale from sadness,
skin behind a seven,
at the end of the cart,
the sideburn like a slash,
remembering its caliber,
from a fallen bull,
always seen alone,
without posture and fuss,
and he took over the whole field,
what another lost due to slowness.

When the red wine reached him,
he used to start singing,
things that came from within
and forced you to listen.
Sometimes he told me
that back in '42,
he used to walk mixed up
and borrowing love,
he used to have a sweetheart,
like no one else cared for,
but there the story ended,
he never completed it for me.
Other times with suspicion,
he approached the counter,
and between the sleeves of his jacket,
he asked for a wine, please.
Everyone in town knew
his ways as a drinker,
and in the midst of the shouting,
he never raised his voice.
They used to call him by nickname,
the sad one or the big head,
one was born out of loneliness,
the other for a reason.

I knew his hideouts,
in the middle of a thicket.
A low adobe shack,
and white painted with lime.
Bitter mate drinker,
and a gaucho like no other.
A heart aged,
talking to loneliness.
They used to call him by nickname,
the sad one or the big head,
one was born out of loneliness,
the other for a reason.
The rest died in history,
for better or worse, what do I know.