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Tan sólo lloró el quebracho

Se arremangaba la sombra
junto al alero del rancho.
 
Era un verano caliente,
de esos que tiene Santiago.
 
Y día de viento norte
habían chamuscado los pastos.
 
Por eso Juan bien temprano
con su changuito
se había metido en el monte
pa' pelearlo al quebracho.
 
Cortar y labrar el poste
su trabajo cotidiano
aunque era un oficio duro
pero él lo había heredado
y con su hacha labradora
era casi un artesano.
 
De pronto llegó el changuito
corriendo al patio del rancho
y gritando "¡Mama, mi tata se ha lastimado!"
de un tajo fiero y profundo
el tata quedó sangrando.
 
Y así casi sin palabras
sin suspiros llegaron
allá en un claro del monte
había un poste medio labrado
estaba el hacha con sangre
y Juan tirado a su lado,
se había guardado unas palabras,
fue pa'decirles algo:
"Que no se aflija le digo. Hoy vos dejas de ser chango.
Ahí tienes mi hacha, cuidala. Has de ver por tus hermanos".
Fue lo último que dijo
y la voz se le fue apagando.
 
Arriba mandaba el sol
como una brasa quebrando.
Se cruzaron dos miradas,
ninguna lagrimearon*
porque hay que seguir la vida
cortar y labrar el poste
y más si el destino ha querido
hacer hombre de ese chango,
¡estoy seguro de que ese día
tan sólo lloró el quebracho!
 
Tradução

Only The Quebracho Wept

The shadow rolled up
next to the eaves of the ranch.
 
It was a hot summer,
of those Santiago has.
 
And north wind day
they had scorched the pastures.
 
That's why Juan very early
along with his little boy
had gotten into the hill
to fight with the quebracho (to struggle with the labor of cutting its wood).
 
To cut and to carve the post
his daily work
although it was a hard trade
but he had inherited it
and with his farmer ax
he was almost an artisan.
 
Suddenly the little boy arrived
running to the ranch yard
and shouting "Mum, my tata (father) has hurt himself!"
with a fierce and deep cut
the tata (father) remained there bleeding.
 
And thus almost without words
without sighs they arrived
there in a clearing of the hill
there was a half carved post
there was the ax with blood
and John lying by its side,
he had kept a few words,
it was to tell them something:
"Do not worry, I tell you, today you stop being a little child.
There you have my ax, look after it. You shall take care of your brothers. "
It was the last thing he said
and his voice gradually began to fade.
 
The sun was up
like a ember breaking.
two glances met,
none of them shed tears
because one has to go on with one's the life
to cut and to carve the post
and more if the fate has wanted
make a man of that little boy,
I'm sure that day
only the quebracho wept!
 
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