A Don Ata

Through the path of the Indian
And the spirit of Don Ata
Riding his sorrel
The vidala saw him pass by
The air of the hill
The flowers of the valley
Tangle in his soul
Ay ay ay to Don Ata.

A Tucuman moon
That illuminates stone and path
And next to the poor woman
Mountains and rivers cry for him
For Tafí del Valle
Fields of Acheral
Also for La Banda and Lules
Just like for Amaichá.

The Santiagoan girl
To relieve her from the cold
Weaves him a pampa poncho
To the pursued troubadour
There in the ravines
And in Salavina
The humble one with the vidala
Seeks him shelter.

There goes Don Atahualpa
Through the world's paths
For a verse, for a lance
Marking the four directions
May God bless him
May He keep him in glory
For so many beautiful memories
And for his memory.

A lonely muleteer
Passed through Altamirano
With a nostalgic whistle
In search of his brothers
Driving his sorrows
For not finding them
He slowly went away
From the Entre Ríos homeland.

The day is clearing up
By the red hill
And in the corners of Churqui
A cut lightning strikes
The añera awakens
By the Gulchaqueña
San Francisco del Chañar
And also Santa Elena.

A breeze from Buenos Aires
Gave him its wind song
And he fell asleep on a trail
In a timeless style
There in Pergamino
Perhaps Santa Rosa
The entire pampa mourns him
In a bass string.