Antonio Vargas Heredia

With a bleeding red carnation in his mouth,
with a willow stick in his hand,
through a path that leads to the river
went Antonio Vargas Heredia the gypsy.
Among the orange trees, the moonlight
cast its orange blossom glow on his forehead
and when the dawn broke clear
he carried reflections of the green olive grove, of the green olive grove.

Antonio Vargas Heredia,
flower of the Cale race,
your willow stick fell from your hand
and the carnation from your mouth,
and the carnation from your mouth.

From Puente Geni to Lucena, from Loja to Benameji,
from Puente Geni to Lucena, from Loja to Benameji,
the girls of Sierra Morena
are dying of sorrow crying for you.
Antonio Vargas Heredia
are dying of sorrow crying for you.

Antonio Vargas Heredia the gypsy
was the most arrogant and the best dressed,
and throughout the surroundings of Sierra Morena
there was no one better, more handsome, or more honorable.

But because of a gypsy woman’s whim
his knife sank into a man’s chest,
the cursed jealousy clouded his eyes
and trapped in jail, he cried in rage, cried in rage.

Antonio Vargas Heredia,
flower of the Cale race,
your willow stick fell from your hand
and the carnation from your mouth,
and the carnation from your mouth.

From Puente Geni to Lucena, from Loja to Benameji,
from Puente Geni to Lucena, from Loja to Benameji,
the girls of Sierra Morena
are dying of sorrow crying for you.
Antonio Vargas Heredia,
are dying of sorrow crying for you.