Ando por la huella

All the tenderness of a memory I have
when in bygone times I start to think;
the dirt patio, the sand cart
and that old bay horse I used to saddle.
For me, there are no Sundays like the Sundays
those that will not return to the Villas
with the Saganías, with the Montenegros,
the Chileno Rojas and the crazy Echezar.
And in the back and forth that life gave me
I drank the cane of reality
and I walk along the trail, roping memories
with that guitar I brought from there.
The old Herreras and the Indio Lugones
in some star they will both be
there are no gates for the poor gauchos
they have all the sky, why would they need more.
I don't cry for the memory because I don't forget
if I was born in a town that I would deny
the good and the bad, for bad and for good
I want to sing it on that guitar.