El patio de la Morocha

Backyard of the brunette that back in the day
had the coolness of shadows like the eaves.
On your poor floor, old bricks,
next to my sad chest, her black eyes
saying goodbye,
saying goodbye...

With the memory of this tango I see her again.
With the memory of this playful tango
that speaks to me of her.
Maybe the backyard and the citronella that called me
and her face full of illusion that peeked out.
And in the corner of some
beautiful crescent moon,
her dark face
that looked at me...

Happy landscape of life
that hurts like a wound.
Poor scrap of dream
that maybe has no owner.
If the soul was in pieces,
how ungrateful her big eyes
the more love they asked for
the more they left me...

Country girl
from that time!
Sweet and streetwise tango
that to the heart
accuses, cruelly,
the absence of the brunette
and the old backyard that I love...

On your poor floor,
old bricks.
Next to my sad chest,
her black eyes
saying goodbye,
saying goodbye...