Guillermo Aguirre y Fierro - El brindis del bohemio dalszöveg fordítás angol nyelvre

English
Translation

The Bohemian Toast

Around a table in a bar
one winter's night,
happily chattering were
six cheerful bohemians.
The echoes of their laughter escaped
and from that quiet neighborhood,
they were going to interrupt the imposing
and profound silence.
 

The smoke coming from fragrant cigarettes
rose to the ceiling in spirals,
symbolizing the life of dreams as
coming to nothing.
 

But on everyone's lips there was much laughter,
inspiration on everyone's mind,
and spread out on the table, glasses
full of rum, whiskey or absinthe.
 

It was curious to see that group,
that group of bohemians,
from which came a coarse word,
the one that spews out poison,
the same as the sweet and delicate
music of a verse.
 

With each new libation, the sorrows
were farther away
from the group, and a new inspiration came
to everyone's minds,
with the broken idyll that came
on the wings of reminiscence.
 

I forgot to say that on that night,
that bohemian group
celebrated among the laughter, libations,
jokes and verses,
the agony of a year that left behind
much bitterness in all their hearts,
and the arrival, a logical consequence,
of the 'Happy New Year'...
 

A manly voice suddenly said:
-at midnight, friends:
let us recite the 'requiescat' for the year
that has passed to become one of the dead.
We shall toast for the year that is beginning!
because it brings us dreams:
because its baggage is not be an accumulation
of bitter miseries...
 

-I toast, said another voice, for the hope
that life gives us,
to overcome the tribulations of destiny,
for hope, our sweet girlfriend,
that mitigates the hardships
and turns our path into a garden.
 

I toast because my existence would have already
been put to an end with violence
brandishing vengeance on my forehead
if only in my sky of clean and divine tulle
only one pale star
would shine on me: My hope.
 

'Bravo!', they all said, you have
been inspired tonight
and you spoke briefly, very well and significantly.
It is Raúl's turn: raise your glass
and toast...for Europe,
being that its foreignness is delicious...
 

I drink and toast,shouted the one introduced
I toast for my past,
that was of light, love and happiness,
in which there were seductive women
and dreamy faces
that got together with mine...
 

In bitterness I toast for yesterday
which today covers my heart
with darkness, it disperses its comforts
even bringing to my mind the sweetness
of pleasures, of tenderness,
of lovers, of delights, of sleepless nights.
 

-I toast, said Juan, because in my mind
springs forth a torrent
of inspiration that is divine and seductive,
because it vibrates in the strings of my lyre
the verse that sighs,
that smiles, that sings and loves.
 

I toast so that my verses,which like arrows
will reach the cracks
formed of metal and granite
of the heart of an ungrateful woman
that kills me with her disdain...
But she has such a beautiful body!
 

For my song to reach her heart,
because I know that in my tears
her hands cause delight in me
because my passion will pay me back with interest...
Let's go, because the divine nectar of her
kisses intoxicate me!
 

A storm of pointless phrases followed,
uncouth and so bad
that they found satisfaction everywhere,
and in each ardent enthusiastic phrase,
there was growing applause,
and libations, and laughter, and everything.
 

There was a toast for the homeland, for the flowers,
for the chaste loves
that make a barrier out of a window,
and to those voluptuous passions
that fills the mire of pleasure with roses
and makes a courtesan out of a woman.
 

There was only one toast left, that of Arturo,
the pure bohemian
of a noble heart and a great mind
one of those who bluntly declared
that he only really desired
to steal inspiration from sadness.
 

Embraced by all, he raised
his glass in front of the happy horde
brimming over with laughter and joy, he
enveloped them in the light of a glance,
he shook out his long shaggy hair
and said thus, with an inspired accent:
 

-I offer a toast to women, but not for the
one in which you look for comfort in sadness,
the embers of pleasure, the wretched ones!
Not for the one that offers her charms
when you kiss her artificially
perfumed curls.
 

I don't toast for her, my friends,
I'm sorry for not obliging you this time.
I toast to women, but only one,
for the one who gave me her devotion
and covered me in her kisses
for the woman who rocked me in the cradle.
 

For the woman who taught me as a boy
what exquisite, profound and true
affection is worth
for the woman who rocked me to sleep in her arms
and who gave me piece by piece
her whole heart.
 

For my mother, bohemians, for the old woman
who thinks of tomorrow
as something very sweet and desirable,
because she probably dreams that my destiny
will show me the road
by which I will quickly return to her side.
 

For the old woman, cherished and blessed,
for the one who gave me life with her blood
and tenderness and affection:
for the one who was the light in my soul
and who cried with happiness
as she felt my head on her bodice.
 

I toast for her, allow me to cry,
for in tears I will shed
this lethal sadness that kills me
let me offer a toast for my long-lost mother,
for the one who suffers and feels
that my absence is a fire that burns.
 

For the unhappy old woman that suffers and cries
and from heaven implores
that I return very soon to be with her
for my mother, bohemians, who is sweetness
flowing in bitterness
and is the star
of my dark nights...
 

The bohemian fell silent no accent
demeaned the feeling
born of pain and tenderness,
and it seemed that over that atmosphere
was floating immensely
a poem of love and bitterness.
 




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