Como Los Trileros

Under my table the tablecloths sweat,
if they close the curtains I break the rails,
and a martinete goes up the stairs,
fine as coral so that you love me,
and in the meantime the day is flooding,
the bellows resound with a lost look,
and I put the pot to bail out the crap.

If I go uphill, you grab me,
and I get my hands dirty with the ground again,
with saliva on my fingers, like the tricksters,
and you take me to pick up scrap
that is lying around in your dreams,
with an eye on my back, like the tricksters.

If the sky ties me down short, the cuqueles bark,
I get angry, I get mad, I break the ropes,
and cover the beach and cement the sand
if my good fortune was never so good
and the sweats sharpening pliers,
for the warmth, which no one can untie,
and I manage crumbs without life killing me.

If I go uphill, you grab me,
and I get my hands dirty with the ground again,
with saliva on my fingers, like the tricksters,
and you take me to pick up scrap
that is lying around in your dreams,
with an eye on my back, like the tricksters.

And hide the sarcasm, the manró and the jurdeles,
if the payos come, the peaks, the laws,
spoons that keep us in the estaribel,
respect your buddies and never dance for them
the water to other hands,
nor drink the seas for anyone
that blood wants to drink you,
for us the undebel doesn't die.

They won't chase us to steal their pears,
and damn those who endure the candles,
let the costaleros die who want to take
our wooden feet
that embrace the embers without anyone seeing
that the day is wounded and the night limps
and cheers, it hurts them to see us gather
joy in handfuls of ten
and with it satisfy the pot
that the rumbling of bellies is a rattle,
and naked, true love falls asleep
like a little child,
who doesn't need to pluck carnations,
or fat bills, nor show laurels,
let them fly!, let them leave us in peace to gather
joy in handfuls of ten

---We don't want to be so much.
We want to live in our land
cracked with crystal clear springs,
walk a little further than the borders
for the sublime longing of return.

We don't want to be so much.
We want to be a bit of sun and a bit of night,
we want to be wind and calm,
storm, rain and the smell of wet earth.---(Manolillo Chinato)