Mensual de Campo (Milonga)
En qué potrero lejano se prolongará su marcha
Abajo dureza de escarcha, o trebolar de verano
Tras qué ternero orejano o rastro de yeguarizo
En el pangaré mestizo, o el malacara lunanco
Irá recorriendo al tranco el horizonte rojizo
Lo enlutaba la gorilla y el sombrero con ribete
Y andaba siempre paquete de botas de cabritilla
Solo adornaba una hebilla su ciento de cuero crudo
Era fuerte, corajudo, y serio como un facón
De poca conversación, pero atento en el saludo
Debajo del cojinillo acostumbrara llevarla
Cuchilla de cueriar, de corvo cabo amarillo
Tenía un recao'sencillo, corto a la usanza surera
Y al borde de la encimera la California tocaba
Con ruido seco de aldaba la llave torniquetera
Con parecido reflejo al de su sonrisa franca
La cinta de lona blanca, listaba el apero viejo
Tusaba liso y parejo, dejando un martillo bajo
Y usó para su trabajo, con escondida jactancia
En vez de los de la estancia los dos caballos que trajo
Uno liviano y ligero, el pangaré ya nombrao'
Tenía paso cortao'y laya de parejero
Arroillado, coscojero y pronto para montar
Aunque manso en el andar, cualquier madrugada fría
En un arranque podía rastrarse a corcoviar
La estampa del malacara salvo el anca defectuosa
Era bruñida y vistosa, del lomo a la frente clara
Reciedumbre de tacuara que en cada nudo reluce
Ancho y renegrido el tuce y brasa encendida el pelo
Como si tal cosa al suelo tumbaba una vaca al cruce
Hombre y caballo parecen unirse en una figura
Sobre la larga llanura por donde desaparecen
Y entre vislumbres que mecen su incertidumbre en un giro
Aun imagino que miro su porte cuando se fue
Montao' en el pangaré y el malacara de tiro
Monthly Field (Milonga)
In what distant field will his march continue
Below the hardness of frost, or the summer trefoil
After what ear-marked calf or trail of young mare
In the mixed pangaré, or the spotted malacara
He will be traversing at the pace the reddish horizon
He wore the mourning gorilla and the hat with trim
And always walked with a pair of goat leather boots
His only adornment was a raw leather buckle
He was strong, brave, and serious like a facón
Not much of a talker, but attentive in his greetings
Under the chinstrap he used to carry
A knife with a yellow curved handle
He had a simple recao, short in the southern style
And on the edge of the saddle, he played the California
With the dry sound of the turnkey key
With a similar reflection to his frank smile
The white canvas ribbon, striped the old gear
He used the smooth and even tusaba, leaving a hammer underneath
And he used for his work, with hidden pride
Instead of the estate's horses, the two horses he brought
One light and agile, the already named pangaré
Had a short step and a smooth and even gait
Roan, with a thick neck and ready to ride
Although gentle in his walk, any cold dawn
In a burst he could crawl and buck
The malacara's figure, except for the defective hip
Was polished and showy, from the back to the clear forehead
Strength of shining bamboo that gleams in every knot
Wide and dark the tuce and the hair like burning embers
As if nothing, he would knock a cow to the ground
Man and horse seem to merge into one figure
On the long plain where they disappear
And among glimpses that sway their uncertainty in a turn
I still imagine that I see his posture when he left
Mounted on the pangaré and the draft malacara