Adiós Chantecler

The cold pickaxe reduced you to rubble
and, passing by at night, looking at your ruins,
this tango singer feels like a poet
and puts a mute on a very sad tango.
Among those red velvet curtains,
of your now non-existent high boxes,
Madam Ricana would always peek out
covered in jewels, drinking champagne.

Amidst cheerful laughter and jokes,
René was always sad,
and seeing her so beautiful and sad
was why I fell in love.
Today she's no longer in the hall,
nor do I enter the cabaret,
your festive and friendly Chantecler
has come crashing down.

In the wild nights when tango was a ritual,
the room vibrated with nervous rhythm,
because back then there was Juancito
shaping his famous style in his orchestra.
Nothing remains and that no longer exists,
neither your dancers nor your variety.
I see you pass by silently, very sad,
Cuban Prince, in front of Chantecler.