I don't sing to the moon
because it just shines,
I sing to it because it knows
about my long walk.
Oh moon of Tucuman
Calchaquian little drum,
partner of the gauchos
in the Tafí paths.
Lost in the bloody-mindedness
who knows vidita
where I'll be going
but, when the moon rises,
I'll sing, I'll sing.
to my beloved Tucumán
I'll sing, I'll sing, I'll sing.
With hope or with sorrow
at the Acheral fields
I've seen the good moon
kissing the reedbed.
In something we look alike
moon of the loneliness:
I go walking and singing
which is my way of illuminating.