Coplas de Viramundo

For those who don't know how I present myself as a wanderer
Rooted in the world, destiny and bag in the saddlebags
In my own way, I carry the marked longing
Rough and stubborn, an old brand that I sustain

I know the wind by the breath from where it comes
And the face of the skull when it's not worth a dime

I've always enjoyed the Sunday races
Saddling the best horse with the appearance of a monarch
And if the gathering turns into some ranch
Even if it's a rough place, I'll get involved in the brawl

When I dismount at a countryside bar
To fill the flask with cane liquor and bless myself in the store
I follow the trickster to the head of the table
And the old soul washes seeing the luck that spies on me

No one beats me in shouting, no one squeezes me
When it's time for a mess, I open a clear path

And so on, with a crooked and content hat
I know little of my rights and what does the sheriff matter to me
Beating life and the face of these winds
I don't give in to the Nazarenes for a tough, arched back horse