Viejo Tortoni

I feel like the balcony drizzles memories,
that over on the Avenue, they peek out, maybe,
bohemians of old who are coming back
those strongholds of the old Café.

Tortoni of today, that time lives in you.
History that breathes in your silent wall.
And a nearby echo of voices that were
leans on the tables, a friendly regular.

Old Tortoni.
A faithful refuge
of friendship over a cup of coffee.
In this basement of today, the magic stays the same
and a spirit greets us at the threshold.

Old Tortoni. In your colors
are Quinquela and the poem of Tuñón.
And that tango from Filiberto,
like you, hasn’t died,
lives without saying goodbye.

I feel like I hear Carlitos’ voice,
from this "Bodega" that comes back to life.
Baldomero is here and that infinite
fervor of the "Peña," reaching right here.

Tortoni of now, so young and ancient,
with a bit of a temple, a stop, and a bar.
Blue, anchored, if the fire is the same,
who said dreaming doesn’t work?