Tonada

With the fragrance
Of the savannah's mastranto
Comes a cowboy
From the pasture to the herd
He's not a poet
Doesn't write or make songs
But he's a man
Rooted in the plains

In the concert
Of his horse's steps
In the middle of May
He sighs in the grove
Feeling the plain
With all five senses
And in his heartbeats
He feels a tune

A verse starts raining on him
And in the middle of his enchantment
Feeling the wind on his face
He sets his gaze
On the thirsty grass
That is entrusting to time
Its dusty destiny
Waiting for a downpour

The sky darkens
Because time doesn't forgive
And the cowboy is the person
Perfectly suited
To sing poems
Dressed in melodies
Of sorrows and joys
On the wet earth

When the wind's waves
Mark the water's entrance
His thoughts flood
With past customs
Where with six hundred cattle
The songs of the ranch hands
From the silent horizon
Seemed to embrace

The palm over the stream
Gracefully perched
Told the cowboys
With their old trails
That the real cattle drive
Was missing a couple of leagues
And tears to his eyes
Suddenly arrived

And he felt the most poet
Of our beloved land

That cowboy
Lives his dream without hurry
And his newly created song
Is kindled
It nests
On the left side of his chest
And to his feelings
It asks for shelter

The rope squeaks
Serving as a hanging post
And in the stream
The herd is seen
Looking for the path
Marked by the old outlaw
The cerrero whistle
That makes its call felt

The wind with the drizzle
Forms a prism in the sky
And a rainbow that astounds
The view from the grove
And the cowboy in his smile
Hears a submissive verse
Feeling like he's improvising
With a choked voice

The rain is soaking him
And on his skin
The shoots of a vineyard
With a well-played harp
Are sprouting
Where he's imagining
Engaging in a poetic duel
And with verses conquering
The love of his beloved

The bay horse neighs
Seeing the painted mare
The man seeing his determination
Sees his image reflected
Because cowboy and horse
Are two sacred images
One is plain in the middle of May
The other is burnt plain

Plain of a thousand paths
I never trade you for anything
In you I grew up as a pilgrim
In your drawn land
For you I thank the Supreme
This dreamed melody
That has descended from the sky
Like the light of dawn
Framed in three longings
Poetry, plain, and tune