Paroles et traduction Orlando Vera Cruz - Cayendo

Cayendo

Anda en mi pago la historia con muchas buenas y malas
Brazerio hecho con chalas con más llamas que calor
Seré siempre el malhechor aunque me agencie un par de alas
Dicen que el tigre es paloma que ahora me he vuelto zorzal
Por jodido en estas lomas, por no aguantar en las domas,
Los corcovos de un bagual, pa mí ya todo es igual.
Soy libre y sin capataz igual que el bichito 'e cesto
Lleno de palo por ajuera pero cera por adentro
Cáscara espinuda arriba, corazón dulce en el medio
Lo mesmo que a tuna brava, hay que entenderme primero
Yo he visto la torta cruda que todo el mundo pondera
La gente es muy embustera y alaba al hijo del rico
Pero según yo me explico lo que alaba es la cartera
Lo dulce le gusta al pico, por eso es que hay pasteleras
En el globo 'e la política he visto subir baguales
Que hoy son fulanos de tales enchirolaus en la vida
Pa' ellos es el agua florida y la máquina 'e los riales
Pero bueno, somos pobres y es la ley seguir tirando
Total, flaco o engordando se ha de arrastrar la carreta
Ya han de relevar la teta pa' que otros vayan mamando
El valor vive en la hondura y hay que fondear pa encontrarlo
Al miedo?, hay que mojarrearlo en la costa y de alfiler
Y si es fácil de encoger, todavía es más fácil arriarlo
Ya no vive en la mujer y en el hombre hay que buscarlo

Cuatrero el jefe 'e político, ladrones los comisarios,
Carneadores los milicicos. Nosotros?, los gauchos malos
Hacen rodeos de vacas, las pasan pa'l otro lau,
Se arreglan certificau ahí nomás al lau del río

Y todo lo suyo es mío en un "Jesús alabau"

Ansi amanece estanciero, el porfiau pa lo'el vecino
Usa bota borrabina, la bombacha 'e gabardina,

Seda al cuello, manta fina, casco 'e corcho y buen sombrero
Waa tape. y cambea el overo por tropilla con bocina

Proteste a ver lo que pasa. Por calumnia va a las rejas

Sí reclama está chupau, y si se enoja, lo abuenan
Que otro remedio mi cumpa, que otro camino nos queda
Que afilar el mellau viejo y putearlos ande quiera

Ansi he visto pobres criollos con su cuadrillita 'e vacas
D'irlas perdiendo en la estaca entre un mogotal embrollo
Entre un "se ha muerto 'e flaca" y un "malparió y se jue al hoyo"
Asesino y criminal resulta el que no se duebla
Pa las gallinas desgranan los maices de la pacencia

Pa cuidar a los paisanos debe ser la policía
Pa hacer respetar sus cosas, su dignidad, sus vaquitas
Después dicen que el criollo, de haraganes pierden todo
Como pa ganar al truco con un juego de ese modo

Cerca del agua he nacido, mi cuna jue el embalsau
Y del hermano dorau, aprendí entre los sanjones
Que hay que cortar a tirones los anzuelos de un confiau
Presteme el porrón cuñau pa hacerle unas confeciones
Porque ando en estas junciones como payaso cansau
Muerto tan solo me rindo porque mientras tenga vida,
V'ia 'tropellar la partida mi suerte contramarcada
Pa' pedir una volada en esta gata parida
V'ia golpear si ansi lo quieren castigando la corriente
Cavau por una creciente, desbarrancau pero entero
Con mis nidos de boyeros, mirando al sanjon de frente
Me tienen demás caliente, tantos cuzcos garroneros

Falling

In my land, the story goes with many good and bad things,
A brazier made with straw, with more flames than heat,
I'll always be the villain, even if I get myself a pair of wings,
They say that the tiger is a dove, that now I have become a thrush,
For being fucked up in these hills, for not enduring the taming,
The kicks of a wild horse, for me, everything is the same now.
I am free and without a foreman, just like the little basket bug,
Full of stick on the outside, but wax on the inside,
Thorny shell on top, sweet heart in the middle,
Same as the prickly pear, you have to understand me first,
I've seen the raw cake that everyone praises,
People are very deceitful, and they praise the rich man's son,
But as I understand it, what they praise is the wallet,
Sweetness is what the beak likes, that's why there are pastry chefs,
In the globe of politics, I've seen wild horses rise,
Who are now so-and-sos, bosses in life,
For them, it's the Florida water and the money machine,
But well, we are poor, and it's the law to keep pulling,
Skinny or fat, the cart has to be dragged,
They will already relieve the teat, so that others can suckle,
Courage lives in the depths, and you have to anchor to find it,
Fear? You have to soak it on the coast and pin it,
And if it's easy to shrink, it's even easier to stow it away,
It no longer lives in women, and in men, you have to look for it.

Cattle thief, the chief of politics, thieves the commissioners,
Butchers the cops. Us? The bad gauchos,
They make cattle roundups, pass them to the other side,
They get certificates there, just by the river,

And everything that's theirs is mine, in a "Praise Jesus."

That's how the rancher wakes up, fighting over the neighbor's land,
He wears dusty boots, gabardine pants,

Silk on his neck, fine blanket, cork helmet, and a good hat,
Waa cover. And he trades the roan for a herd with a horn,

Protest and see what happens. He'll go to jail for slander,

If he complains, he's screwed, and if he gets angry, they calm him down,
What other remedy, my friend, what other way is there for us,
Than to sharpen the old blade and fuck them wherever we want.

That's how I've seen poor Creoles, with their small herd of cows,
Losing them at the stake, amidst a thicket of trouble,
Between a "died skinny" and a "damned and went to hell,"
A murderer and criminal is the one who doesn't bend,
They shell the corn of patience for the chickens.

The police should be there to protect the countrymen,
To enforce respect for their things, their dignity, their cows,
Then they say that the Creole, because of laziness, they lose everything,
As if to win at cards with a game like that.

I was born near the water, my cradle was the reservoir,
And from the golden brother, I learned among the ravines,
That you have to cut the hooks of a trusting person with jerks,
Lend me the wine jug, brother-in-law, to make some confessions to you,
Because I'm in these junctions like a tired clown,
Dead is the only way I surrender, because as long as I have life,
I will stumble the game, my fate countermarked,
To ask for a flight in this barren cat,
I will hit if they want it that way, punishing the current,
Ridden by a flood, wrecked but whole,
With my nests of cowbirds, looking at the ravine head-on,
They have me more than heated, so many scavenger dogs.