La Pulpera de Santa Lucía

She was blonde and her heavenly eyes
Reflected the glory of the day
And she sang like a calandria
The grocer of Santa Lucía.

She was the flower of the old parish.
Who was the gaucho that didn't love her?
The soldiers from four barracks
Sighed in the grocery store.

The mazorquero troubadour sang to her
With a sweet moan of guitars
At the gate that smelled of jasmine,
In the courtyard that smelled of damask roses.

"With all my soul I love you, grocer,
And someday you will have to be mine,
While the nights in the neighborhood are filled
With the guitars of Santa Lucía".

She was taken by a troubadour from Lavalle
When the year forty was dying;
Her heavenly eyes no longer illuminate
The parish of Santa Lucía.

The trumpeters of Rosas did not return
To sing vidalas and skies to her.
At the gate of the grocery store
The jasmines wept with jealousy.

And the mazorquero troubadour returned
To sing in the empty courtyard
The mournful and final serenade
That the wind from the river carried away:

Where are you with your heavenly eyes,
Oh grocer who was never mine?
How the guitars weep for you,
The guitars of Santa Lucía!