El guitarrero
Alfredo Zitarrosa
The Guitar Player
(Milonga)
The old corner, the voice leaves me
of the guitar player
and on the path, the voice that arrives
to play with me.
Poorly dressed, he takes his drink
of humble cane,
with it he fools the harsh cold
or the harsh cold of January.
The guitar player...
With his guitar tied to the town,
he sings his song,
wind that blows carries him on its back,
through the ravines, through the roads.
To the pilgrim...
He sings his song, shows the sorrow
of poverty,
his serious face succumbs to the weather
that comes upon him through the wood.
The guitar player...
The early morning, already awake,
gives him his accent,
and the white wind carries lifted
the hoarse voice.
If a star falls on his path
like dew,
he releases the ship of his songs
to the corners of the whole town.
The guitar player...
The poor faces, salty tears,
tavern and cane,
the strange sorrow, pain with owner
humble dream, gathers the wood.
Of the guitar player...
