El cantor de Buenos Aires

I look back and realize
that the new time took away
the 'sash', the 'military heel'...
I notice here on the left
that my heart mocks me.
Nothing hurts as much as seeing
unravel from the spool
the thread of youth.
Goodbye wisterias, vineyards, and mallows...
Everything, everything has already gone...

Where will the points of that bar be,
where I sang my first song.
And those courtyards where I quickly won over
taurine applause, the first I heard.
Where will Traverso, the Cordobés and the Noy be,
Pardo Augusto, Flores and the Morocho Aldao.
That's how my flight as a thrush began...
The tough guys from Abasto
rhymed my song.

I am that singer from the suburb,
creole goldfinch that plucked
the humble muslin muse.
I remember twenty springs ago,
those dances by candlelight...
When hanging from one ear
like a blow to the side
was the red stain of a carnation.
Boys, everything has been taken by the calendar.
Everything, everything has already gone.