El Trovador de Barro Negro

In the pavilion of my toys,
A small troubadour of black mud attacks his lute.
Sometimes I don't know where he goes:
He befriends the nights, the dogs, the walk.

But knowing himself preferred, he returns to me,
With morning and sun or with gray dawn.
He returns from the shadows of a secret I don't know;
He returns from a perhaps, he returns from a maybe...

And for me, he plays the lute
With a melody that seems blue;
And for me, he tells of his journey
And the song debuts a suit...
And for me, he plays the lute
Rushing it like an avalanche;
I suspect his melody comes from loving poetry.

His desperate version sounds,
His version of the mysteries that animate him,
His version of the soul.
His love song flaps its wings;
His country - his emotion - arrives and walks:
His disillusionment disarms.

And once the song ends, we must wait
For him to leave again, for him to return.
Thus, sometimes dawn surprises me;
Dreaming that he will always come back...

And for me, he plays the lute
With a melody that seems blue;
And for me, he tells of his journey
And the song debuts a suit...
And for me, he plays the lute
Rushing it like an avalanche;
I suspect his melody comes from loving poetry.