Текст и перевод песни José Larralde - Pobre viejo

Pobre viejo

La quemazón de los años se hizo ceniza en su pelo
Y ya no le quedan fuerzas pa aguantar solo el repecho
Se le acoyaron aunsencias y ahora que ya va pa viejo
Se le hace un ñudo la pena que enseña un pañuelo negro
Se sienta al lado de fogón cimarroneando en silencio
Y se le endulza el amargo pensando en lejanos tiempo
El pucho de su tabáco le anda temblando en los dedo
Mientras le ñubla la vista el humo de los recuerdos
Ensilla como al descuido gana el campo al tranco lerdo
Y tarda en volver al rancho pues naide lo espera dentro
Debes en cuando un silbido le sale al viento
Un dolor que brota en estilo entre sus labios resecos
En la noche mas oscura su ojos están abiertos
Como buscando esa sombra que le anda espantando el sueño
Ansina pasa la horas entre lucero y lucero
Con esa cruz que el destino le ha clavau sin estar muerto
La quemazón de los años se hizo cenizas en su pelo
Se le hace un ñudo la pena que enseña un pañuelo negro
El potriador del olvido no sigue pal pobre viejo.

Poor Old Man

The burning of the years has turned to ash in his hair
And he no longer has the strength to endure the climb alone
He has been overwhelmed by absences and now that he is getting old
A knot of sorrow tightens his heart that shows a black handkerchief
He sits by the fireside, silently brooding
And his bitterness is sweetened by thoughts of distant times
The stub of his cigarette trembles in his fingers
While the smoke of memories clouds his vision
He saddles up as if by accident and gains the field at a slow pace
And he is slow to return to the ranch because no one waits for him inside
Every now and then a whistle escapes into the wind
A pain that bursts forth in song between his dry lips
In the darkest of nights his eyes are open
As if searching for that shadow that is chasing away his sleep
Thus he spends the hours between stars and stars
With that cross that fate has nailed him to without him being dead
The burning of the years has turned to ash in his hair
A knot of sorrow tightens his heart that shows a black handkerchief
The oblivion's corral does not belong to the poor old man.