Acuarelita De Arrabal
Era un viejo zapatero que vivía en un portal
Y era una rubia vecinita, muy bonita
Y muy coqueta, que pasaba sin mirar
La rubia, por las mañanas, iba camino a su taller y
Frente al cuchitril del viejo remendón
Era como un prime rayo de sol
El pobre viejo, tras de la vidriera
Viviendo alguna lejana ilusión
Soñaba, al verla pasar por la acera
Quién sabe qué loca quimera de amor
La rubia, un día, se entró a la buhardilla
Y el pobrecito tembló de emoción
Cuando a pretexto de atarle una hebilla
La pierna torneada su mano palpó
Y con sorpresa, ese día, frente a su chiribitil
La gente, llena de emoción, se detenía
Para escuchar la melodía de un violín
Era que aquel zapatero, con religiosa devoción
Su triste soledad lloraba al tierno sonde familiar canción sentimental
Desde esa tarde, su canto parece
Con su incansable motivo chillón
La monocorde sonata de un grillo
En el pentagrama de aquel callejón
Y, según dice, pensando en la rubia
El pobre viejo, detrás del portal
Como una pierna, temblando, acaricia
La caja del tosco violín fraternal
Watercolor of the Suburb
There was an old cobbler who lived in a doorway
And there was a blonde neighbor, very pretty
And very flirtatious, who passed by without looking
The blonde, in the mornings, went on her way to her workshop
In front of the old cobbler's hovel
It was like a prime ray of sun
The poor old man, behind the shop window
Living some distant illusion
Dreamed, seeing her pass by the sidewalk
Who knows what crazy love chimera
The blonde, one day, entered the attic
And the poor thing trembled with emotion
When, under the pretext of fastening a buckle
Her shapely leg his hand touched
And with surprise, that day, in front of his hovel
People, full of emotion, stopped
To listen to the melody of a violin
It was that the cobbler, with religious devotion
His sad loneliness cried to the tender sound of a familiar sentimental song
Since that afternoon, his singing seems
With its tireless shrill motive
The monotonous sonata of a cricket
On the staff of that alley
And, they say, thinking of the blonde
The poor old man, behind the doorway
Like a leg, trembling, caresses
The box of the rough fraternal violin
Escrita por: C. Castillo / J. González Castillo