The Dream
Who knows my dream
Was negotiating
On the edge of a bush
In the rituals of a drink
Of the last lights
That narrow Sundays
It stayed in the branches
Saddling a dark horse
After the siesta
Or in the early mornings
In a round room
Of some cattle drive
My dream rolls
In the very old beddings
Shaped by the back
Guarding sweats
Just like the relics
Of a precious time
It sniffs cambonas
With field yawns
In the early mornings
Handling gates
That open to the day
Sending colts
My dream falters
The angico weaves
In the August rains
And draws the hardships
Of so many winters
In the thistles of a poncho
It gallops in a wind
Unraveling longings
Blown from the ranch
Waves of a poncho
Mixed in the rhymes
Of mane and guitar
Perhaps when it hears
The cries of the pampa
It's not some illusion
Limiting the silence
Creating borders
In the peace of a shed