Estacion de Vias Muertas (Milonga)

Old and rundown station
That used to be all joy
When it was a pilgrimage
In the harvest times
Now it seems like it's cursed

The wreck of oblivion
Who knows where they have gone
Baggers and foremen
Strong and capable men
Who have been lost forever

No more hobos can be seen
By the dock
Nor a stevedore with a sign
From a grain company
Now through your huge gate

No truck enters
The carter doesn't unleash
His famous team of horses
Nor unloads on the platform
The bags from the back

No more pretty girls
Strolling on the platform
Who used to wait for the train
In the lovely evenings
Against your clean tracks

The radiant sun doesn't crash
And in that constant stillness
Of the ruins that remain there
The wheel doesn't even move
Of your giant mill

The money changer doesn't walk
With that blue blouse
Nor does the machine wheeze
With its misty breath
They are no longer in the office

Neither the boss, nor the assistant
And you can't hear the telegraph ring
And the sparrows little by little
Have ended up taking over

Your signal is calm
Your warehouses eaten away
And on those dormant rails
There are no more wagons in line
No more piles can be seen

On your deserted platform
Your bell doesn't wake up
And it's a forgotten clapper
A rusty tear
Crying over a dead end