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translated by Jake Spatz
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| Discepolín | Discepolín | |
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Music: Aníbal Troilo Lyrics: Homero Manzi Rec. by Osvaldo Fresedo with Hector Pacheco |
Tr. Jake Spatz Recited 26 July 2006, Divino Lounge |
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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!... |
Atop the frozen marble, croissant flakes by the score, and a loony dame in the corner, who's eating all alone... She's busy with her breakfast and already your muse is sore... the dawn is unforgiving, and heartless as a stone. Who's to blame, in the end, for life's grotesque display, for the soul all bleeding-through with stains incarnadine? It's better to make our exit before the break of day, before we start to cry, old chum, Discepolín! |
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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. |
I understand your boredom's long compounding, and I know the cost of living free of woes; and I sense you there at every tango's sounding, with your enormous talent and your nose; with your acid teardrop tucked away from view, with the pallid mask of a clown that you put on, and with that wistful smirking that you do, that flowers into verse and into song. |
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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... |
The people come before you with their heap of hard-luck cases, and you stroke them almost shivering, almost with a shove... They hurt you like your own, the scars on other faces: the chips were stacked against this one, that one was never in love. The dance-floor swarms with people at the orchestra's loud swell, sawdust puppets embrace beneath the floodlights' sheen... They're dancing, don't you see? It's a party, can't you tell? Come on, it's all gotta hurt, old chum, Discepolín. |
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All contents copyright 2006