Versos de un payador a la señora Eva Perón

With the flair of a troubadour, I step into your home, ma'am,
with my guitar, strumming warm with passion's fire.
Each peg, a flower, and every string a song,
a sound that resonates with love, reaching higher
to honor you, my most dignified lady.

This style of song isn't common these days,
it faded with the tradition of the eloquent bard.
But suddenly, I feel, on this noble occasion,
I must make an exception to sing with regard
my heartfelt verses dedicated to Eva Perón.

But I must, with your permission, or rather your grace,
resume my improvisation and erase my inexperience.
Blinded by impatience, I made a mistake
by greeting you while forgetting, in my carelessness,
to celebrate in his absence General Juan Perón.

He is the greatest voice, and you are the greatest calm.
He is the spearhead, and you are the heart of love.
He is a shout of honor that even duty demands,
and you are the hand that soothes when pain is tough.
He is the great sower, and you are the great hope.

He is the great builder of the liberated land,
and you, the shirtless one, who plays with such courage.
Both bound by love, they lead the charge,
the masses, moved by the glow of this fervor,
have sworn with honor to die in this fight.

In troubadour style, I sang in your home, ma'am,
with my resonant guitar tuned for your honor.
Forgive me if, in the favor of your welcoming hand,
my poor singing muse couldn't do better
as it burst forth with love in this house, ma'am.