I race with my patched-up horse
Against Cirilo’s chestnut steed
Not asking for riches indeed,
As he did with the red horse.
Nicasio leads, with Don Zenón as judge, to course
From the starting gate to the corner,
Betting all my gear so much,
Even to pawn my knife’s honor!
Gentlemen, I hold no fear,
Status, brand, or coat or tone.
That horse from “La Zarca” near,
It might just skin their own.
I fear no racer with loud gear,
Not the trumpet nor the crowd…
For I’ve spun corrupt legs about
At that corner ‘of Las Latas’,
Made them lose heart and spout!
They accept and unsaddle,
Leaving gear, knife, and hat aside,
With his scarf tied as tackle.
He’s at the edge ‘stead whip to ride.
With hope placed on his God,
In weight they align,
Leaning left and right, so broad,
Matching sixty-two line.
He faced a dappled bay,
Hilarión Contreras’ a brand,
A race winner on display,
More than red blood prizes stand.
It was ridden by a young man so good,
A camper in races, first to flare,
Skillful to launch from stand
For when released, none stood
He always took the lead on hand!
The youthful opponent felt
Challenged and took the heed,
He added weight stealth
With half-a-kilo for need…
He was surrounded by a crowd
Forcing the luck on his side.
Others, patting the patched cloud,
Moved along the narrow stride,
As if victory already denied.
And need we tell the tale further about
What that race scene declared!
Anyone from outside we’re sure
Could imagine what secured about…
Jockeying kept them their lure,
Starting false till waiver fell,
Till one run the flag did spell,
And the dark bay and patched horse
Lit across the course!
And they shouted “They’re off!”
It was neck and neck the retrace,
Ears not clearing in space
As whips did descend tough.
When finally the end they cross
Amid cheers, hats flying in view,
Applause ringing, excitement grew,
And the judge with calm declared:
“Settled, just so, my fellows!”
