Balada Per A Un Trobador

His worn-out shoes, clothes full of dust, and a trembling mouth always carry a sweet song. The land he walks on is none other than his own land, and the wine that wets his throat is none other than his own wine. He was not a stranger in any corner. The troubadour was already old. He has sung for princesses in shining and grand palaces. He has jumped walls, opened doors locked with a double key, when he had a clear voice like the skin of his loves, when, at night, they covered him with white sheets embroidered with flowers. The flowers have lost their scent. The troubadour was already old. Today he has changed alcoves. Now that he has lost the keys, a straw hut seems like a palace where his song rises for a plate and a glass of wine. Shepherds and tavern keepers are his night flowers. Everything fades in the fall. The troubadour was already old. And tomorrow when the sun rises, he must continue his journey. He will arrive at another village and leave from there with his worn-out shoes, clothes full of dust, and a trembling mouth carrying his sweet song.