Milonga e Baguala

I feel the baguala, for what it brings
I see the milonga in my short stride
I don’t feel and don’t see when it barely pleases me
When one of the two separates from the other

Baguala I see, in a pampas way,
Milonga I feel, through the stick it’s a cousin.
If it’s not like this, I lose the rhyme,
'Cause nothing helps me if I’m not a cowboy

Milonga and baguala, guitar and throat,
In the same scuffle it seems like another party.
And for the one who dances, losing her grip,
I don’t believe any of them seem to be saints,

But I believe it’s baguala,
From the dust it kicks up from the ground.
When it slips through the hands as milonga,
It dominates strummed, for good it matches.

I feel milonga, that sings the wildest horse,
In training fields, for being a payador.
Where the most spurred one becomes baguala,
How beautifully a cloak blooms for others.

If it’s not baguala, I doubt there’s
Another refinement that’s pleasing.
For those who by habit already bring milongueado
What echoes in a shout of come here.

Baguala and milonga, sound and rhythm,
That in every beat takes over the space.
Where the clingy stuff is rummaged through,
What guarantees us that we have desire.

Longing for a homeland that time wraps,
Where print and guitar get tangled up.
When it comes to form, sniffing out the claws
Of the same coat, milonga and baguala.