Acuarelita De Arrabal

There was an old cobbler who lived in a doorway
And there was a blonde neighbor, very pretty
And very flirtatious, who passed by without looking
The blonde, in the mornings, went on her way to her workshop
In front of the old cobbler's hovel
It was like a prime ray of sun

The poor old man, behind the shop window
Living some distant illusion
Dreamed, seeing her pass by the sidewalk
Who knows what crazy love chimera

The blonde, one day, entered the attic
And the poor thing trembled with emotion
When, under the pretext of fastening a buckle
Her shapely leg his hand touched
And with surprise, that day, in front of his hovel
People, full of emotion, stopped
To listen to the melody of a violin
It was that the cobbler, with religious devotion
His sad loneliness cried to the tender sound of a familiar sentimental song

Since that afternoon, his singing seems
With its tireless shrill motive
The monotonous sonata of a cricket
On the staff of that alley
And, they say, thinking of the blonde
The poor old man, behind the doorway
Like a leg, trembling, caresses
The box of the rough fraternal violin