2018.10.07.
Brunette
Slowly the caravan,
little donkeys come down from the hill
the countrywoman goes behind
accompanied by her dog.
The saddlebags are very heavy
of weeds, brevas* and llores.
What saddlebag carries your pain,
the pain of her loves?
Brunette
when the sun goes down
Brunette
when this hour arrives
and nobody will await you
and nobody names you
alone with your shadow
you will cry of love.
Brunette
How huge is your grief
like a blind bird
which sings very close
to your heart.
The afternoon passed away
in your eyes so tired
you went down sad from the hill,
accompanied by your dog.
The roads are very long
bringing a thirst that burns.
How sad the dry creek
so similar to your grief!
2018.10.07.
Amalia´s song
The blood of the fortieth year drenched
your divine jasmine color face,
mourning madonna lily of the tyranny
Buenos Aires never forgets you.
Dreaming you lived alone in the country house
and the river gave you its mortal song,
the willows of the long street sigh
there was a song of love in the distance.
Belgrano loved you, Tucumán jasmine,
Rosas's dagger looked for his chest,
your beautiful pupils cried with anguish,
at the red nights of the Restaurador.
With blue ribbons in your black braids
you opened to him the door of the old garden.
Guitars from Buenos Aires said the glory
of those loves, they sang for me.
The daggers wandered around the empty countryhouse
the sweet guitar stopped singing.
Eduardo Belgrano was dying
and there in the roses a dagger dripped.
He dreamed of being free, he dreamed that she (or you)* was his
and in your black eyes he saw freedom.
He looked at the celestial currency in your braids,
kissed your pupils and he didn´t speak anymore.
The weepy willows shaking in the river
and the wind in the grilles of the southern neighbourhood
sang your idyll, of love and death,
on the long street under the blue sky.
sorrowful sighing, of love without luck,
you heard, Amalia, the ardent song,
that Eduardo Belgrano, with moribund voice,
sang to your ear saying goodbye.