El Anacleto Del Viento
Pobre Anacleto cigarro
Ojitos de mariposa
No le queda ni pa'l vino
Pero le sobran las rosas
La chala de su cigarro
Encendida desde el alba
Cada pitada es grito
Que va consumiendo el alma
Él es cantor bagualero
De aquí, de ninguna parte
Pero le salta el vallisto
Si le canta Cafayate
El Anacleto es el viento
Pálido de desventuras
Le soplan aires de muerte
Caminos de la angostura
Con su sombrero azabache
Retobao como su dueño
Le van saliendo las coplas
Como si fueran de un sueño
Él es cantor bagualero
De aquí, de ninguna parte
Pero le salta el vallisto
Si le canta Cafayate
The Anacleto of the Wind
Poor Anacleto, smoke in hand
With butterfly eyes so grand
He can't even buy a drink
But he's got roses, don't you think?
The end of his cigarette
Lit since the break of dawn, you bet
Each puff's a cry, a plea
That slowly burns away his glee
He's a wandering singer, you see
From nowhere, just like me
But he feels the rhythm rise
When Cafayate's song flies
Anacleto is the wind, you know
Pale from all his woes and woe
Death's whispers in the air
Paths of sorrow everywhere
With his black hat on his head
Tattered like the life he's led
His verses flow like dreams at night
As if they’re born from pure delight
He's a wandering singer, you see
From nowhere, just like me
But he feels the rhythm rise
When Cafayate's song flies