|
|
The End of the Harvesting
By paths of Tucumán,
Toward the mountains where they were born,
Earth of burning suns,
Perfumed by pollen,
By paths of Tucumán,
Vine, vidala* and silence,
The men of the furrow go away,
As poor as they have come.
The harvesting has come to an end,
Hard labor of winter.
The earth has come out tired,
Tired like the worker.
Already on the tracks no
Heavy sugar carts are to be seen.
Already the buzzing of the milling rollers
Isn't to be perceived anymore.
And in the night of the fields,
Like an adíos on behalf of silence,
Where before was cane
Remains the burning forage.
Adiós, earth of Tucumán.
Paths that lead far away
Have to separate me tomorrow
From your fields and your hills.
Already I don't have to see in the furrows
Tanned arms of workers
Struggling from morning to evening
For what always is someone else's.
Already I don't have to look at the moon
Appearing behind the hill,
Nor the path of Tafí,
Stone, song and memories.
Paths that lead far away
Have to move me away from here,
Beyond those mountains
Perfumed by pollen.
I'm like the plantation,
Earth that yields back the effort.
My flowers are from summer
But inside I carry winters.
I'm like the plantation,
With sun, and fruit, and silence.
And within the soul I go on burning
The forage of my dreams.
* Vidala: an
exclusively Argentinean song, as well for its musical structures as for the
poetical ones.
|
|
Fin de la Zafra
Por caminos tucumanos,
Hacia el monte en que nacieron,
Tierra de soles ardientes,
Perfumada de polen,
Por caminos tucumanos,
Vino, vidala y silencio,
Se van los hombres del surco,
Tan pobres como vinieron.
Ha terminado la zafra,
Dura labor de invierno.
La tierra quedó cansada,
Cansada como el obrero.
Ya no se ven en la huella
Pesados carros cañeros.
Ya no se siente el zumbido
De los trapiches moliendo.
Y en la noche de los campos,
Como un adiós del silencio,
Donde antes hubieron cañas
Queda la maloja ardiendo.
Adiós, tierra tucumana.
Caminos que llevan lejos
Me han de separar mañana
De tus campos y tus cerros.
Ya no he de ver en los surcos
Curtidos brazos obreros
Luchando de sol a sol
Por lo que siempre es ajeno.
Ya no he de mirar la luna
Asomando atrás del cerro,
Ni el camino de Tafí,
Piedra, canción y recuerdos.
Han de apartarme de aquí
Caminos que llevan lejos,
Más allá de aquellos montes
Perfumados de polen.
Soy como el cañaveral,
Tierra que rinde el esfuerzo.
Mis flores son de verano
Pero adentro llevo inviernos.
Soy como el cañaveral,
Con sol, y fruto, y silencio.
Y en el alma voy quemando
La maloja de mis sueños.
|
|
