La Chiquita Piconera

I
The painter respected her
just like something sacred
and his passion he hid
because he was a married man.
She charmed him with soul and path
bewitched by the magic of his palette
and like a flame she consumed
in that black and secret madness.

CHORUS

And when at night Cordoba slept...
and the fountain of Potro was like a cry,
a voice said:
Oh, little spicy girl,
my little spicy girl!
This waxen face
takes away my senses.
I keep painting, painting
beside the brazier
and at the same time I burn
from how much I love you.
Bless me, Saint Raphael,
to have the water so close
and not be able to drink it!

II
She broke that affection
and changed her path,
and the painter like a child
cried seeing her lost.
And he changed even the line of his painting,
and through streets and squares people saw him
shedding the rose of his bitterness
as if in this world he were absent.

CHORUS

And when at night Cordoba slept...
and the fountain of Potro was like a cry,
the painter lamented:
Oh, little spicy girl,
my little spicy girl!
I would give my whole life
to contemplate your face.
See how much I love you
that I keep waiting
beside the brazier
to keep painting you.
Bless me, Soleá,
having wanted to forget you
and not being able to forget you!