Mensual de Campo (Milonga)

In what distant field will his march continue
Below the hardness of frost, or the summer trefoil
After what ear-marked calf or trail of young mare
In the mixed pangaré, or the spotted malacara
He will be traversing at the pace the reddish horizon

He wore the mourning gorilla and the hat with trim
And always walked with a pair of goat leather boots
His only adornment was a raw leather buckle
He was strong, brave, and serious like a facón
Not much of a talker, but attentive in his greetings

Under the chinstrap he used to carry
A knife with a yellow curved handle
He had a simple recao, short in the southern style
And on the edge of the saddle, he played the California
With the dry sound of the turnkey key

With a similar reflection to his frank smile
The white canvas ribbon, striped the old gear
He used the smooth and even tusaba, leaving a hammer underneath
And he used for his work, with hidden pride
Instead of the estate's horses, the two horses he brought

One light and agile, the already named pangaré
Had a short step and a smooth and even gait
Roan, with a thick neck and ready to ride
Although gentle in his walk, any cold dawn
In a burst he could crawl and buck

The malacara's figure, except for the defective hip
Was polished and showy, from the back to the clear forehead
Strength of shining bamboo that gleams in every knot
Wide and dark the tuce and the hair like burning embers
As if nothing, he would knock a cow to the ground

Man and horse seem to merge into one figure
On the long plain where they disappear
And among glimpses that sway their uncertainty in a turn
I still imagine that I see his posture when he left
Mounted on the pangaré and the draft malacara