Herencia Pa' Un Hijo Gaucho (Parte II)

If you allow me to temper
and don't show impatience,
if you let me settle
and don't rush me,
maybe within the past
I'll reach the present.
I was born like everyone else
blood of the same color.
Naked like a flower
sorrowful because that's the way.
I had no other accommodation
than my way of sleeping,
and it was when going back and forth
on paths of oblivion,
I found out almost by chance
the right to live.
From verses I sang yesterday
many things were said,
some praiseworthy
others full of venom
everyone has their own scabs
but the owner sees them as beautiful.
I remember in a gathering
we talked for a while
and you know that by request
I don't like to say anything.
The donkey kicks
when it deems necessary.
I know it bothers many
that I don't stay quiet
between silence and shouting,
I choose the one that shouts.
If the herd is new
don't use a tied bell.
It doesn't matter if someone thinks
that I pile up words,
I just think about moving forward,
I don't want to stand still,
I have a path traced
I'll follow it until I die.
Never think
that because it's free I breathe.
Some live on sighs
or I didn't learn to sigh.
When I have to fill
my lungs to shout
I can't hold them
nor have I tried.
I'd rather drown
than hold back the shout.
Before the strings of my feelings
fall silent,
I would like to tell you
like this, as in passing,
the sums of some subtractions
and the dots of some 'i'.
And never believe
that I shout to be trendy.
Every wild horse adapts
when it enters the fray,
but they will never find
in the horse of my feelings
enduring suffering on its back,
nor fleeing from the downpour.
What my skin can't bear
will sink to the bone.
While you shake the mate
and take the yerba from the jar,
I'll smoke a cigarette
enough for a break,
and wait for this gentle smoke
to ease my burden.
In past occasions
when I knew how to be a laborer,
if I had to travel
mixed with the smoke.
That's why, that's why when I smoke
I feel like pondering.
How many times I went to the mine
to work in the plowing,
with just a bare suitcase
or there on the railroad
if I haven't thrown a Brazil
between loaded carts.
They called us swallows
to the occasional laborers.
Swallow or poor laborer
it's the same thing,
with lazy fortnights
a shovel and a ram.
In one place hope
and in another engineering.
In one place the stubbornness
of doing things better,
and every so often a gentleman
who arrived and suspended.
I thought more than once:
The gentleman is not to blame.
If the company doesn't want
effective laborers.
But at home, what do I say?
when the whistle comes.
The belly never understood
that there's a difference for the laborer,
but the conscience understands
and that's the sad part, compatriot;
hunger is a worm
that makes patience lose.
The bad thing is when one forgets
statute, rule, law.
The one who buckles and doesn't complain
has the strength of an ox.
Everything gets old
time is time and is king.
I've also worked as a mechanic
and as an official,
but when I went to fix
they paid me like a laborer,
and as the whistle was worse
I had to endure it.
One day I got angry
and fought with a boss,
and in those dealings
so as not to mess up more
I had to leave
with my tail between my legs.
And back to nothing
looking for a sad job,
I went through the whole area
and at the Estancia