Guitarra

Laid out in the early morning,
the sturdy guitar waits:
voice of deep wood
in despair.

Its clamorous waist,
in which the people sigh,
pregnant with sound, stretches
the tough flesh.

The guitar burns alone,
while the moon fades away;
it burns free from its slave
flamenco dress.

Left the drunk in his car,
left the somber cabaret,
where one dies of cold,
night after night,

and raised its delicate head,
universal and Cuban,
without opium, marijuana,
or cocaine.

Bring back the old guitar,
anew to punishment
awaited by the friend
who never leaves it!

Always high, never fallen,
bring your laughter and your tears,
claw with asbestos nails
onto life.

Take it, guitarist,
cleanse its mouth of alcohol
and play your entire tune
on that guitar.

The tune of mature love,
your entire tune;
the one of the open future,
your entire tune;
the one with the foot over the wall,
your entire tune...

Take it, guitarist,
cleanse its mouth of alcohol
and play your entire tune
on that guitar.

Your entire tune.