Balada Para Un Trovador

The holey shoes, the dusty clothes, and the trembling mouth always carry 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, opened doors locked with double keys, when he had a voice as clear as the skin of his loves, when, at night, white sheets embroidered with flowers covered him. 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 where his song rises with a plate and a glass of wine. Shepherdesses and tavern keepers are his night flowers. Everything sheds its leaves 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 with holey shoes, dusty clothes, and in his trembling mouth, he will carry his sweet song.