The round of Argentina

appears in the tropics 

and going down the river 

with its own rivers, it grows. 

Plantations pass, they pass. 

Cloaked in ferns, darkness comes. 

We walk with the day, 

and march on when night falls.

Leaving behind this Mesopotamia, 

it shimmers and disappears. 

The hand is broken by the force of wheat. 

Seven times we are torn apart, 

seven times we are reunited.

Fat cattle cross the pampa. 

A white round splits 

into black and vermilion, 

and with the wind of the pampa, 

more songs grow.

Arriving in Patagonia, 

white with ostriches, 

we fish on islands 

for the last fish. 

The round of Argentina 

appears in the tropics, 

and the round reaches the place 

where the world dies...

In the blanched Antarctic sea, 

the sea tests its dregs, 

and with a spin, it returns

to where the world dies:

the round of Argentina 

appears in the tropics.
 
 
 

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Page last edited February 14, 2000
by: PhoneBoy