El Chueco Maciel
Por qué tu paso dolido
del norte hacia el sur,
el pie que no supo,
el pie que no supo
de risa o de luz?
Tu padre abandona la tierra
de Tacuarembó
buscando su tierra,
una tierra suya,
y nunca la halló.
Encuentra la triste basura
donde viven mil,
encuentra la muerte,
encuentra el silencio
de aquel cantegril.
El Chueco, redondos los ojos
y sin pizarrón,
mirando a la madre,
mirando al hermano,
aprende el dolor.
La luna, semana a semana,
lo ha visto vagar
armado de espuma,
buscando una orilla
como busca el mar.
El Chueco no sabe de orilla
ni sabe de mar,
él sabe de rabia,
de rabia que apunta
y no quiere matar.
Asalta el banco y comparte
con el cantegril,
como antes el hambre,
como antes el hambre,
comparte el botín.
Así les canto la historia
del Chueco Maciel,
suena la sirena,
suena la sirena,
ya vienen por él.
Los diarios publican dos balas,
son diez o son mil,
mil ojos que miran,
mil ojos que miran
desde el cantegril.
El chueco era un uruguayo
de Tacuarembó,
de paso dolido,
de paso dolido,
de paso dolido.
Los chuecos se junten bien juntos,
bien juntos los pies,
y luego caminen buscando la patria,
la patria de todos, la patria Maciel,
esta patria chueca que no han de torcer
con duras cadenas los pies todos juntos
hemos de vencer.
The Crooked Maciel
Why does your painful step
from north to south,
the foot that didn't know,
the foot that didn't know
of laughter or light?
Your father leaves the land
of Tacuarembó
searching for his land,
his own land,
and never found it.
He finds the sad garbage
where a thousand live,
he finds death,
he finds the silence
of that shantytown.
The Crooked one, eyes round
and without a blackboard,
looking at his mother,
looking at his brother,
learns the pain.
The moon, week after week,
has seen him wander
armed with foam,
looking for a shore
like the sea searches.
The Crooked one doesn't know about shores
or about the sea,
he knows about anger,
anger that aims
and doesn't want to kill.
He robs the bank and shares
with the shantytown,
like hunger before,
like hunger before,
shares the loot.
So I sing to you the story
of Crooked Maciel,
the siren sounds,
the siren sounds,
they're coming for him.
The newspapers publish two bullets,
are they ten or a thousand,
a thousand eyes watching,
a thousand eyes watching
from the shantytown.
The crooked one was a Uruguayan
from Tacuarembó,
with a painful step,
with a painful step,
with a painful step.
The crooked ones gather their feet closely,
feet closely together,
and then walk seeking the homeland,
the homeland of all, the Maciel homeland,
this crooked homeland that they won't twist
with harsh chains all feet together
we shall overcome.