El lazo
Victor Jara
The Lasso
When the sun was setting,
I found him,
in a shady ranch,
in Lonquén,
in a poor man's ranch,
I found him,
when the sun was setting,
in Lonquén.
His hands, so old,
were strong for braiding,
rough and tender
with the animal's hide.
The lasso, like a snake,
coiled around the walnut tree,
and in each loop, the mark
of his life and his bread.
How much time is in his hands
and in his dim gaze.
And no one has said: it's enough,
you no longer have to work.
The shadows come lacing
the last light of the day,
the old man braids some verses
to tie up the joy.
His lassos have traveled
south and north, hill and sea,
but the old man never knew
how to explain the distance.
His life remains in the lassos
clinging to the walnut tree,
then death will come
and will also lace him.
What does it matter if the lasso is firm
and lasts for eternity,
lacing through some field
the old man will rest.
When the sun was setting,
I found him,
in a shady ranch
in Lonquén,
in a poor man's ranch
I found him,
when the sun was setting
in Lonquén.
