La Tropilla
La tropilla que monto
de "reservados",
son de un pelo y tordillos
como mis años.
Y la yegua madrina
más renegrida,
que las penas que mi alma
lleva escondidas.
Las espuelas que yo uso
pa' mis floreos,
malambeando reluce
mis zapateos.
Sus rodajas ya no hincan
porque yo pienso,
es cobarde el que hiere
los indefensos.
Y los bastos que pongo
de cabecera,
cavilando me tienen
la noche entera.
Hasta que me sorprende
la madrugada,
abrazao de quien llamo
mi peor es nada.
A mi rancho le falta,
y esto no es broma,
una china que sea
muy querendona.
Porque es triste vivir,
como quien dice,
sin tener una prenda
que lo acaricie.
The Gang
The gang that I ride
is made of "reserved ones,"
they're a mix of colors
just like my years.
And the lead mare
is darker than night,
more than the sorrows
my soul keeps inside.
The spurs that I wear
for my fancy moves,
shining while I dance
with my stomping grooves.
Their wheels don’t dig in
'cause I believe,
it's a coward who hurts
those who can't defend.
And the rough ones I put
at the head of my bed,
keep me thinking
through the whole night ahead.
Until dawn surprises me
with its light,
holding tight to who I call
my worst is alright.
My ranch is missing,
and this ain't a joke,
a girl who's loving
and won't leave me broke.
'Cause it's sad to live,
as they say,
without having a treasure
to hold every day.