La Loca de La Plaza

In Buenos Aires, the gardeners with soul tell you
That sweet little old lady, the crazy lady of the square,
They built the square on top of her because she's been sitting there
Long before the square was inaugurated.

The sun warms her hands with orange handkerchiefs
And on her eyelids there are bars and a square moon.
At night, the statues stir her heart
And her love releases a wave of nostalgic longing.

The crazy lady's mouth is full of fog and, if she sings,
A dramatic street organ commits suicide in her throat
Repeating an old name over and over, relentlessly,
That name that leaves her face phosphorescent.

The pleasant little paths pass by her from side to side
And the girls in love walk inside her,
Leaving her completely waltzing in madness
And dancing with the memory of the one who never came to find her.

That's why she has abandoned gazebos in her chest
And there's a sad little puddle that sees her every morning
Burying her own shadow in a glimmer of water
Sorrowful and Christianly, like burying a sister.

They say, when they get drunk, the gardeners with soul
That for that little old lady they wear black ties
Because she's been dead for a long time, waiting, sitting there,
But no one has told the crazy lady of the square.