Translation:

Your eyes are so beautiful they can cause a man’s heart to miss a beat. Myself, I’m driven crazy by them. Upon seeing you for the first time I ran after you and having caught up, I stood there, right in front of you, just contemplating them… their beauty caused me to lose my speech.

Translation:

I wish to buy from life five cents worth of joy. As I’m poor, five cents is all I can afford to pay to be able to kiss you as I have you in my arms. If afterwards — finding myself no longer with you — I become the most miserable man in existence, so be it, just as long as I get my five cents worth of joy… with you.

Translation:

Would you believe me if I told you that your beauty is a reason of concern to me? It’s so. I wonder why you didn’t leave long ago, when I could have withstood the experience. It’s now too late… you’ve become my Goddess.

My being despairs and my heart trembles to only think that one day you’re to walk away from me. I suppose there’s nothing to be done of it, considering how plagued with envy the world has become. I can see it now, a man will enter your life and will try to make you his. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t have it any other way… I’ll remain yours, and you mine; what the world has to say of it is of no importance.

As I understand it, sometime in the 1970s there lived a man in a town near my hometown. He was a common man, until the day he killed some animals (cattle, perhaps) that belonged to a neighbor. The animals had tresspassed his property. This incident might have given rise to his name, “La Mula Bronca.”

The owner of the animals wasn’t going to let things be. For that reason, La Mula Bronca would not be at ease ever again. The Policia Judicial and Policia Motorizada wanted to put him in jail. For the death of the animals? No, probably not. That was only the beginning of his troubles with the law. People speak of human deaths.

The police sought him, and when they’d find him he’d escape. There were many deaths, just not his. That was the case until a 7th of November, many years after he had become a wanted man. Folks say he killed over ten men before he met death himself.

I tried translating his corrido, but its translation was coming out too cheesy. Heck, even his name is cheesy when translated into English. So cheesy he’d probably step out of his tomb for a moment just to come and hit me upside the head for translating it. So we’ll leave it at that, “La Mula Bronca.” Or simply… La Mula.

I can, however, cite part of the corrido. It says that on the day of his funeral the Motorizada came into the town where it was being held. They wanted to remove him from his funeral and put him on fire. The Motorizada despised him even in death.

The Motorizada had its plans. It didn’t occur to them, however, that even dead they would not be able to do with him as they pleased. Two men stood in their way. One was Fidencio Soriano who “tiraba sin descansar” — fired nonstop. The other was Guillo Quiñonez. Together, “los retacharon pa’tras” — they sent them back to where they came from.

Curious to know what La Mula Bronca’s corrido sounds like? Reach me and I’ll hook you up, since you can’t find it at amazon.com. Here are the lyrics, though…

A bench in Hollywood High School is where I rested, under a tree that lost had its leaves — it was Fall of 1999. The sun shined through it branches, giving me an excuse to cover my eyes with my palms. It would be better that way, because then I’d be able to wipe my tears with ease and without being too obvious, if someone approached.

A bus going through Hollywood Boulevard, in the City of the Stars, carried a distressed passenger. People sat to his left, to his right, and in front of him. He could not see them clearly. His view was blurry. It’s hard to see through tears.

The seats of the football stadium at Los Angeles Valley College is where he sat to view an empty field. He was the only one there. That’s what he needed, privacy. He needed time to think.

A bridge in North Hills was crossed by the same man to be interviewed for a job at an elementary school. He had never been interviewed for a job before. He wasn’t nervous at all because his mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with other things.

A classroom in the school where he had been hired is where the man was, staring at the walls, the ceiling, the board, anything. There were students giving the teacher trouble, but the man was not aware of it. He was daydreaming.

He laid in bed with a girl he was seeing. He held her in his arms. He looked at a clock and asked himself, “Where is Amber?”

It’s in the last few months that I’ve lived better days. Hmm, Los Magallones are playing a song right now that carry a message for Nicole. Let me end this entry with its lyrics (translation, not word-for-word)…