I race my spotted horse
Against Cirilo’s chestnut
And I don’t ask for a single kilo
Like he gave to the redhead…

Nicasio, waving the flag
And as judge, Don Zenón,
To race from the gate
To there, to the corner…
And I’ll bet even my saddle
And pawn my dagger too!

No respect, gentlemen!
State, color, or brand
And for “La Zarca” estate’s horse
You could lower their hides.
I’m not scared of matched pairs
With fancy harness or trumpets…
Because it’s not the first rascal
That there, at the corner of Las Latas
I’ve thrown up their legs
And also dropped their mouth…!

They accept and they unsaddle
Leaving on the gear,
Boots, dagger, and hat
And his scarf becomes a headband.
He goes from the field to the shore
Instead of one whip, two…
With faith in his God
As legitimate hope,
For the sides of the balance
To match sixty-two…

He got a gray roan
Marked by Hilarión Contreras,
Who had won more races
Than the red-blooded bull.
Ridden by a young lad, Floro
Very good country racer,
Sharp and advantageous
To set off at the flag,
For there was no one who would come out
He always jabbed first!

The rival of the young boy
Who felt challenged,
Loaded, to equal the weight
Half a kilo of ammunition…
He was surrounded by many
Who cheered on his side…
Others, clapping for the spotted
Continued towards the track,
As if they saw in him
A victory already discounted.

And why keep recounting
What that race was like!
If any man from outside
Would now be guessing…
They kept maneuvering
Missing and missing the start,
Until in one run
The flagman lowered the flag,
And the roan and the spotted
Were lights ignited!

And they felt “They’ve hit!”
And the thing was even,
Neither could get ahead
And the whips came down…
And when at the end they passed
Among spectators and bettors,
Among applause and hats
That waved with joy,
The judge shouted decisively:
“Settled, just so, gentlemen!”