La Guitarrera de San Nicolás

Guitarist, I kept your guitar
Because no one will ever
Pluck its strings like you did
In the nights of San Nicolás.

Where are your blood cielitos?
Where are your love vidalas?
Where is the song you used to sing
In the times of the restorer?

You were also called Camila,
Like the one who loved until death;
Under the willow of holy places
Your guitar poured out its lament.
In the courtyards loved by the jasmine tree
And never forgotten by you,
The men listened to you crying,
Guitarist of San Nicolás.

Because you sang to them of loves
In the nights of the restorer,
And also, upon hearing your guitar,
The women of Buenos Aires cried for love.
A jasmine bloomed in your hair,
And when singing your last song
The corn cob fell to its knees,
The heart bled with sorrow.

Ah, what a sad night in the neighborhood
Where you never sang again!
Everyone cried in the courtyards
And the jasmine began to wither.
Red ribbons and flowers of blood
So they never forget you
I placed on your sleeping guitar,
Guitarist of San Nicolás.