Perhaps it's the wind that doesn't brush him anymore
perhaps it's his hat that doesn't fit him anymore,
perhaps it's that line of joyous nostalgia on his face
or the confusion between life and poetry...
He doesn't rob trains because they never pass
he doesn't rob banks because that's his money;
he lives off sunsets and carefully planned oblivion
and moving, repeated, slow goodbyes,
heart wrenching goodbyes...
The tired bandit
broken hearted, tonight goes away
goes away on his white horse
goes away with his torment,
where there's silence, where there's silence,
where there's silence, where there's silence, where there's silence.
He has an unparalleled collection of bounties on his head
many bottles, all emptied a long time ago;
he sleeps on his horse, which can't stand him anymore
and has been working his butt off on the pampa.
Every night he comes and leaves a flower on some doorstep,
as red as the blood in his heart used to be,
then he rides away until the deceitful sunrise
when some gaucho swears to hear him still
still singing...
Ah, tired bandit
tonight I cried thinking of you:
there's something of my life
in your life that fades away
where there's silence, where there's silence,
where there's silence, where there's silence, where there's silence.
If I close my eyes, in my eyes you are still the true one,
the one I trusted, the one I smiled to.
Listen to me, look at me, stop, this love still lives
all this love, all our love.
You can't go to die a long way from here like a whore
before my heart, in place of my heart.
Don't leave me alone in this night when I can't see the sky.
Come back, bandit! Come back, bandit!
Come back, bandit!
Where there's silence, where there's silence,
where there's silence, where there's silence, where there's silence.