A Don Nicanor Paredes

Here comes a strumming now,
with your permission,
I'm singing, gentlemen,
to Mr. Nicanor Paredes.
I didn't see him stiff and dead.
I didn't even see him sick.
I see him with a firm step
walking his domain, Palermo.
The mustache a little gray,
but the sparkle in his eyes,
and close to his heart
the lump of the knife.
The knife of that death
he didn't like
to talk about... Some misfortune
from horse races or gambling.
(Recited)
He was more of a leader than a churchgoer,
if my count doesn't fail me,
back in the rough times
of the eighteen ninety.
If among the knife-wielding people
there was a brawl
he would stop it abruptly,
with a shout or with the talero.
Now he's dead and with him
how many memories fade
of that lost Palermo
of the wasteland and the dagger.
Now he's dead and I say to myself:
- What will you do, Mr. Nicanor,
in a heaven without horses,
without wine, card games, and flowers!