Décimas del Fogón

I grew up as a countryman in the mud
then I stepped on the cobblestone
but in all that hustle
I rooted myself in the plains
I myself was my guide
and I searched in the twists and turns
where the sincere song
of my older brothers
were like a bouquet of flowers
in gusts of a pampero wind.

As a child, they taught me
not to strike this instrument
companion of my accent
in verses they passed down
and in my chest they remained
the verses and lessons
dispelling clouds
on those cold mornings
like longed-for sunny spells
warmed by emotions.

Forgive me if sometimes
I start to get serious
but I have in my judgment
not to be deceitful
like grass swaying
tickling the clover
I have a great time
in rural innocence
I don't sing foreign songs
to cheer myself in the harvest.

I knew so many lies
that I even despise the singer
who never delivers the flower
born in the same song
I met many guitarists
winners of a thousand revelries
and their hands were claws
destroying melodies
I saw experts applauding
seeing the guitar suffer.

Fellow countrymen who are here
singing to them is my destiny
I am a rural singer
who gives his best
and as I never lied
I offer respect to the hearth
and since it's a good occasion
to sing in an Argentine way
I won't give good trills
but my heart.