Spanish |
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| EL COSECHERO |
El viejo rio que va
cruzando el amanecer,
como un gran camalotal
lleva la balsa en su loco vaiv?n.
Rumbo a la cosecha cosechero yo ser?,
y entre copos blancos mi esperanza cantar?
con manos curtidas dejar?
en el algod?n mi coraz?n.
La tierra del Chaco quebrachera y montaraz
prender? mi sangre con un ronco sapukay,
y ser? en el surco mi sombrero
bajo el sol faro de luz.
Algod?n, que se va, que se va, que se va,
plata blanda mojada de luna y sudor,
un ranchito borracho de sue?os y amor quiero yo.
De Corrientes vengo yo,
Barranqueras ya se ve,
y en la costa un acorde?n
gimiendo va su lento chamam?.
Rumbo a la cosecha…
Algod?n, que se va, que se va, que se va,
plata blanda mojada de luna y sudor,
un ranchito borracho de sue?os y amor
quiero yo, quiero yo, quiero yo. |
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English |
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| THE HARVEST |
The old river which
Crisscrosses the dawn,
Like some giant mass of camalote plants
Carries (my) raft in its mad fluctuation.
Headed to the harvest, a harvester I’ll be
And between white puffs I’ll sing of my hope
With leathery hands I’ll leave
In the cotton my heart.
The wild land of El Chaco*
Will inflame my blood with a raucous sapukay**
And in the furrow my hat will be
Under the sun a streetlight.
Cotton, going on and on and on,
Soft silver moistened with moon and sweat,
A ranchito, intoxicated with dreams and love
Is what I want.
From Corrientes* I come,
Barranqueras* is already in view,
And on the shore an accordion
Wails its slow chamam?**.
Headed to the harvest…
Cotton, going on and on and on,
Soft silver moistened with moon and sweat,
A ranchito***, intoxicated with dreams and love
Is what I want, I want, I want. |
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