El Indio Muerto
El cielo está enlutado
de opaco poncho de nubes
el día murió a lo lejos
lo están velando arreboles.
Los cerros devuelven ecos
del canto del chilicote
que perdido entre los yuyos
corea responsos tristes.
Ha muerto el indio poeta
silencio le hacen los erkes
y en los arroyos de Anta
lloran los sauces su muerte.
El día se viene lento
lo esperan rosadas nubes
para contarle del luto
que embarga a los hondos valles.
Indio del triste silbo
tu canto lo tiene el monte
de noche lo dará al viento
pa´que lo arree por los aires.
The Dead Indian
The sky is in mourning
with a dull poncho of clouds
the day died in the distance
they are watching over it with redness.
The hills echo
the song of the chilicote
lost among the weeds
chanting sad prayers.
The Indian poet has died
the erkes keep silence
and in the streams of Anta
the willows cry for his death.
The day comes slowly
pink clouds await it
to tell it about the mourning
that overwhelms the deep valleys.
Indian of the sad whistle
your song is held by the mountain
at night it will give it to the wind
to carry it through the air.