Baila la maga

Dance the Witch

(Milonga)

Dressed in mourning behind the curtain,
suddenly a blue spotlight illuminates her,
she opens a delicate wound in the air
and the dancer is born.

The gallant was already waiting for her,
a blond and murky descendant of Adam,
muscle and sorcerer, a German luxury,
a Tarzan, somewhat lazy.

A doubtful and discreet butterfly,
the dancer moves towards the athlete,
they seem to have a secret
celestial love appointment.

Seeing you dance floating on tiptoes,
trembling with passion in my chair,
I felt that you were my sea and my shore,
my salt, my blood, and my bread.

You came to the town by train by my side,
your golden satin shoes
danced on my cobblestone patio
underneath my laurel tree.

But your kisses were screams,
your bones chains and padlocks,
your winged feet, marble and plaster,
your skin sealed paper.

Thank you for gifting me your honor,
confection of rare sweetness,
as if your heart
had a little bow on it.

Thank you for the sin and the hunger,
for your frozen thighs, your flesh,
thank you for forgetting me as well,
as soon as you crossed the platform.