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translated by Jake Spatz
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| Niebla del riachuelo (1937) | Mist upon the harbor | |
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Music: Juan Carlos Cobián Lyrics: Enrique Cadícamo Rec. by Osvaldo Fresedo with Roberto Ray |
Tr. Jake Spatz Recited 08 Aug. 07, Divino Lounge |
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Turbio fondeadero donde van a recalar barcos que en el muelle para siempre han de quedar... Sombras que se alargan en la noche del dolor; náufragos del mundo que han perdido el corazón... Puentes y cordajes donde el viento viene a aullar, barcos carboneros que jamás han de zarpar... Torvo cementerio de las naves que al morir sueñan sin embargo que hacia el mar han de partir... |
Anchorage in the drifting fog where listing to a side lie boats that in the harbor wharf forever stay behind... Shadows that grow longer as the sorrowed night descends, shipwrecks of the world that lost their spirit way back when... Coils of rope and bridges where the winds come to howl, steamboats that shall never need to weigh their anchors now... Gloomy cemetery where the dying ships yet dream that all the same they soon enough are shipping out to sea... |
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¡Niebla del riachuelo! amarrado al recuerdo yo sigo esperando... ¡Niebla del riachuelo! de ese amor para siempre me vas alejando... Nunca más volvió, nunca más la vi, nunca más su voz nombró mi nombre junto a mí, esa misma voz que dijó: ¡Adiós! |
Mist upon the harbor— moored to the remembrance, I keep on waiting still... Mist upon the harbor— for that love that you forever put farther away... Never to return, never to be seen, nevermore to hear her say my name right next to me in that very voice with which she said goodbye... |
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Sueña, marinero, con tu viejo bergantin, bebe tus nostalgias en el sordo cafetín... Llueve sobre el puerto, mientras tanto mi canción llueve lentamente sobre tu desolación... Anclas que ya nunca, nunca más han de levar, bordas de lanchones sin amarras que soltar, triste caravana sin destino ni ilusión, como un barco preso en la "botella del figón"... |
Sailor, dream away about your shipping brig of old, drink to your nostalgias in the silent old saloon... It's raining on the harbor, and the while it does my song is raining ever slowly on your being left alone... Anchors that shall never, never now have cause to rise, quarterdecks of barges with their moorage ever tied... Sad caravan at journey's end, beyond illusion's glow, like a ship within the bottle of some little dive's Bordeaux... |
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All contents copyright 2007