In the black moon
of the bandits
spurs sing.

Black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?

The hard spurs
of the stationary bandit
that lost the reins.

Cold horse.
What perfume of fine knife!

In the black moon
bleeding side
of Sierra Morena.

Black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?

The night spurs
its black flanks
digging stars.

Cold horse.
What perfume of fine knife!

In the black moon
A shout! and the long horn
of the fire.

Black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?