The country is sad,
The country has cried,
The country has lost a friend
Because death drove him away.
The cabin became a shack,
The lamp does not flicker any more,
A closed window
Where the sunshine does not tread in.
The weeds have approached the site
To see what happened.
A blurred path
From the kitchen to the shed,
Peeps out here and there
As if waiting for the landlord.
From the gate to
The yard where the drinking fountains lie,
solitude and the legs of a dog
drag themselves across the land.
There is a shrilling mill
With more turns than destiny,
And some neighbor must have opened it
out of gaucho fashion.
The wire lines
Have loosened up,
To pay tribute
To their caretaker.
Even the woods have become thicker
In a deep silence,
Because Don Segundo has left
With a weary whistle.
The cabin became a shack
The lamp does not flicker any more,
A closed window
Where the sunshine does not tread in.
The weeds have approached the site
To see what happened.
Final whistle.
The weeds have approached the site
To see what happened.
But Don Segundo has left
With his sad whistle.