Текст и перевод песни Os Monarcas - Santuario de Xucros

Santuario de Xucros

Assim começa o surungo mesclando fumaça e poeira
Porta do quarto entupida e a mulherada em fileira
Branca morena e mulata casada viúva e solteira
Loucas pra coçar o garrão num manquejar de vaneira

(E nisso se ouve um grito indiada vocês me ouçam
Dá uma folguita pros velhos e saiam de riba das moça)

Feito de cinza e cupim no chão batido da sala
Piso bom igual aquele granfino nenhum iguala
Santuário da tradição da xucra raça baguala
Parede de pau-a-pique guincha furada de bala

E assim num torcer de queixo se guasqueia um contrapasso
Desses de torrar badana numa tarde de mormaço
E o chinaredo de gruda igual pepino no barasco
Vão empurrando as paletas e retovando os espinhaço

E quando o zóio da lua vem me bombear nesse rancho
Na cordeona duas falas numa vaneira eu remancho
Raiz de cerne pampeano o qual o tronco eu me arrancho
No lombo do verso xucro com capricho eu me esgancho

A meia noite uma polca pra damas pra um arremate
Pra ver quem gosta de quem e o verso faz o combate
Depois vão lá pra cozinha pra descansar o alcatre
Pra comer feijão e mexido e guerrudo com chá de mate

Xucros Sanctuary

Thus begins the surungo, mingling smoke and dust
Bedroom door blocked, and the ladies in line
White, brown, and coffee with cream, married, widowed, and single
Itching to scratch their claws, in a hobbledehoy's vaneira

(And with that, a yell can be heard, "Hey, you Indians, listen up
Give the old folks some space, and get off the young ladies")

Made of ash and termite, on the beaten earth of the living room
No grand gentleman has a floor as good as that
Sanctuary of tradition, of the fierce baguala race
Walls of wattle and daub, squeaking, riddled with bullet holes

And so, with a twist of the chin, a contrapasso is danced
One of those that scorches leather on a sweltering afternoon
And the Indian boys stick to it like burrs to a thistle
Pushing the paletas and straightening their backs

And when the moon's eye shines on this ranch
In the accordion, two voices, in a vaneira I'll sing
Root of Pampean heartwood, in which I plant my trunk
On the back of a fierce verse, with care I hang

At midnight, a polka for the ladies, for a grand finale
To see who fancies whom, and the verse does the fighting
Then they'll go to the kitchen, to rest their calves
To eat beans and stew, and sing with mate tea