Balada Para Un Trovador

Worn-out shoes,
Clothes covered in dust,
And in his trembling mouth
He always carries a very sweet song.
The country he walks through
Is none other than his own country.
And the wine he wets his throat with
Is none other than his wine.

He was not a stranger in any corner.
The troubadour was already old.

He sang for princesses
In grand dazzling palaces.
He jumped walls, he opened doors
Closed with a double lock,
When he had a clear voice
Like the skin of his loves,
When, at night, he was covered
With white sheets embroidered with flowers.

The flowers have lost their scent.
The troubadour was already old.

Today he has changed bedrooms.
Now that he has lost the keys,
A mud hut
Seems like a palace to him
Where his song rises
With a plate and a glass of wine.
Shepherds and tavern keepers
Are his night flowers.

Everything falls apart in autumn.
The troubadour was already old.

And tomorrow, when the sun rises,
He must continue his journey.
He will arrive at another town
And leave from there
With worn-out shoes,
Clothes covered in dust,
And in his trembling mouth
He will carry his song so sweet.