El aguacero

As if reneging on Destiny
of braiding leagues and leagues over the sad expanse
goes the wagon, creaking on the road
that seems to open, as its white shell passes by.

When the bones scream
a sign that a storm is coming...
A fresh breeze is blowing through the pastures
and the horneros make noise announcing the downpour...

And the Pampa is a green handkerchief,
hanging from the sky,
stretched out in the sun,
as life sometimes turns out to be
without shadows or wounds,
without sorrow or love...
The wind from the glen
brings a taste of wet earth
and in the song of the old boyero
the pampero seems to
blowing his pain...

The storm is suddenly unleashed
and the rain is a curtain stretched out in the immensity
while the oxen, on the dusty path,
are blowing with joy, as if they were eager to walk...
Well done to the song of the tero
that greets the downpour!
The sadness of the road is not so sad anymore
and in the vertigo the herdsman feels like singing.

Langanay, old ox, overo loin,
silent sharecropper of the same sorrow,
the same yoke binds us to the road...
Heavy destiny
of walking and walking!
Where will you go, ox with a fat back
that the herdsman does not follow you?
And the Pampa is a green handkerchief,
hanging from the sky, that wants to cry...