Canción Del Obraje

On Saturdays to the obraje
Alone through the trails
The guitarist Juan Ponce
As if by chance he arrived

The loggers at night
Happy because he sings to them
They laugh bit by bit
Just like blown embers

When Juan Ponce
Lets out his hoarse voice in the woods
The axe of the Moon spills
Leaf by leaf

His zambas bloom florid
And his eyes get misty
When he remembers women
The distances sweeten for him

Poor singer of the mountains
Drunk in the early mornings
The guitar with its shadow
Carries him crucified