El Gaucho

Son of some corner of the plain
Open, elemental, almost secret,
He threw the firm lasso that holds
The dark-necked bull firmly.

He fought with the native and the foreigner,
He died in card games and dice;
He gave his life to the country, which he ignored,
And thus losing, he lost everything.

Today he is dust of time and planet;
No names remain, but the name endures.
He was so many others and today he is a quiet
Piece that moves literature.

He was the outlaw, the sergeant, and the game.
He was the one who crossed the heroic mountain range.
He was a soldier of Urquiza or Rivera,
It doesn't matter. He was the one who killed Laprida.

God was far away from him. They professed
The ancient faith of iron and courage,
Which does not allow supplications or reward.
For that faith they died and killed.

In the hazards of the mob
He died for the color of a badge;
He was the one who asked for nothing, not even
Glory, which is noise and ashes.

He was the gray man who, dark in the slow
Twilight of the shed, dreams and drinks mate,
While in the east the light
Of the deserted dawn is already breaking.

He never said: I am a cowboy. It was his fate
Not to imagine the fate of others.
No less ignorant than us,
No less lonely, he entered death.