Pajarillo (part. Luis Humberto Navejas)

She used bulk makeup daily
and sold her skin at a high price,
from eight to ten on a corner,
she was young and skin, she was pink and thorn.

Her name was ... I don't know ... I never knew it,
I never asked her, I never had
her time and her skin, she was a brat
and I only looked at her from well to well.

And she was a little bird with white wings,
from balcony to balcony, from square to square,
love seller, offering
to the highest bidder her tune.

Five winters passed, and there she was,
the same time as yesterday, the same corner,
she was young and skin, and still had
the rose of her skin, and the thorn bigger.

And she smiled as the onlookers passed by,
under that lamppost, night after night;
twenty times they took her prisoner
and she sang her song behind bars.

And she was a little bird with white wings,
from balcony to balcony, from square to square,
love seller, offering
to the highest bidder her tune.

Her skin wrinkled, and the makeup
was not enough to cover
the mark left by the sixth winter,
she ran out of color, and even breath.

And from eight to ten, alone on the corner,
that lamppost and that thorn remained;
the rose, I don't know where it would go,
her name was ... I don't know! ... and she smiled

And she was a little bird with white wings,
from balcony to balcony, from square to square,
love seller, offering
to the highest bidder her tune.