Así es el tango

That's tango, you know,
from yesterday and today,
flirtation and love's sorrow.
If you don't understand,
listen to what I'm telling you,
because the neighborhoods are witnesses
to me telling the truth.
It's the whistling
of the shameless gang,
next to the
red mailbox with bad intentions.
And the grumbling
of the boy who, swollen with love,
was kicked out
for a cardboard box.

The love
of the ranch or the chalet,
in its sound
renews the kerosene.
And in its sway
annoying and swaggering
sun of the courtyard
and moon of the store.

There is also
sadness of the suburb,
and resentment
of schedules and wages.
Discomfort
of crying for what was
and looking at what came
without being able to understand.

That's tango, you know,
and much more.
Sentimental mosaic
of my city.
Swaggering in the Donjuans,
perfumed in the hallways
and grumbling in the bad times.
In the crying,
throat of the bandoneon.
In the dancing,
heel-tapping rhythm.
Now you know:
that's all that it expresses and more
the tangled tango
of my city.