Chimarrão

Old gourd, Creole
I met you in the shed
Bringing my chimarrão
With a hint of smoke
Bitter drink of the race
That sweetens my heart

Silver bomb craved
By the pond of the land
How many women or wandering natives
From the water, their thoughts
Of joy, suffering
Of disappointment or comfort

I see you in the can of herb
All covered in dust
In the hand of the cheerful woman
Or around the stove
Leaning on a burning ember
Or leaning against the kettle

I rest my elbow on my knee
I sit on the haunch
By the ground fire
I go over my memories
And I can't find in history
Who invented you, chimarrão

It was the tough-haired native
When he stepped on this land
Crazy to have a sip
He had a dry throat
Tasting the plant's leaf
He was the one who made you bitter mate

You were a wild drink
And today you are tradition
And only you, my chimarrão
That the gaucho does not despise
Because you are the prayer book
That I pray by the stove

Although cold or washed
Or if your crest falls
My joy expands
To see you like this, my trophy
Who invented you went to heaven
And left you for Rio Grande