Tango Lyrics in Spanish and
English
|
|
DISCEPOLIN
|
Nickname of Discepolo (1951)
|
Lyrics by: Homero Manzi |
Music by: Anibal Troilo |
Translated by: Walter
Kane |
Return to Table of Contents |
Last update on: 6/1/08 | |
CLICK ON THE REFRESH BUTTON TO MAKE SURE YOU HAVE THE LATEST PAGE |
HECTOR PACHECO with Osvaldo Fresedo |
CASTELLANO | ENGLISH |
Sobre el mármol helado, migas de
medialuna,
y una mujer absurda que come en un rincón... Tu musa está sangrando y ella se desayuna... el alba no perdona, ni tiene corazón. Al fin, ¿quién es culpable de la vida grotesca y del alma manchada con sangre de carmín? Mejor es que salgamos antes de que amanezca, antes de que lloremos, ¡viejo Discepolín!… Conozco de tu largo aburrimiento y comprendo lo que cuesta ser feliz, y al son de cada tango te presiento con tu talento enorme y tu nariz; con tu lágrima amarga y escondida, con tu careta pálida de clown, y con esa sonrisa entristecida que florece en verso y en canción. La gente se te arrima con su montón de penas y tú las acaricias casi con un temblor... Te duele como propia la cicatriz ajena: aquél no tuvo suerte y ésta no tuvo amor. La pista se ha poblado al ruido de la orquesta... se abrazan bajo el foco muñecos de aserrín... ¿No ves que están bailando? ¿No ves que están de fiesta? Vamos, que todo duele, viejo Discepolín... |
On the icy marble, crumbs of croissant,
and an absurd woman who eats in a corner… Your muse is bleeding and she's having breakfast... the dawn doesn't forgive, doesn't have a heart. Finally, who is guilty of the grotesque life and of the soul stained with crimson blood? Better that we leave before dawn, before we cry, old Discepolin!… I know of your long boredom and I understand what it costs to be happy, to the sound of every tango I sense your presence with your enormous talent and your nose, with your bitter, hidden tear, with your pale clown-mask, and with that sad smile that blossoms in verse and in song. People approach you with their heap of sorrows and you caress them almost with a shudder… It hurts as your own, someone else's scar: that guy was not lucky and this one didn't have love. The dance floor is packed to the sound of the orchestra... sawdust-filled puppets embrace under the floodlight…. Don't you see that they're dancing, that they're partying? Let's go, even though everything hurts, old Discepolín… |
CONTACT US |
|||