La Violeta

With the elbow on the dirty table
And the gaze fixed on a dream
The Italian Domingo Polenta thinks
About the drama of his immigration

And in the dirty tavern that sings
The nostalgia of the old country
His hoarse throat goes out of tune
Already toughened by cheap wine

And The Violet goes, goes, goes
She goes to the field she dreamed of
That was her yinyín who was watching over her

He also seeks his dreamed good
Since that day, so distant now
When with his load of illusion he set out
Like The Violet that goes, goes

Distant folk song
That idealizes the dirty tavern
And shines in the eyes of the Italian
With the pearl of some tear

He learned it when he came with others
Locked in the belly of a ship
And it is with her, making batuque
That he consoles his disillusionment