De Buenos Aires morena
Viento que viene del Sur,
fue su ardor de muchacha.
Polen moreno en su piel
y en su voz, la fragancia.
Trajo el aroma feliz
de la flor de su patio.
Ganas de darse y vivir
desvelaban sus manos.
Sé que el poeta la amó
y la puso en su canto.
Y que su canto lloró
cuando la vio partir.
De Buenos Aires morena...
ojos de llama y milagro.
Fraguas de besos que entregan
sus labios quemando...
Cuando regresa hacia el Sur,
ni los besos le alcanzan.
Relampaguea de amor
y el adiós la desangra.
Hay que robarla del Sur
y a la vida llevarla.
Darle a la noche la luz
de su risa robada.
Sé que el poeta tembló
cuando pudo encontrarla.
Ella a sus brazos volvió
por caminos del Sur.
De Buenos Aires morena...
Hay que robarla cantando.
Pájaros ebrios y estrellas
la vienen llamando.
Y las cigarras del viento
le cuelgan su canto.
From Dark-Skinned Buenos Aires
Wind coming from the South,
was her young girl's ardor.
Dark pollen on her skin
and in her voice, the fragrance.
She brought the happy scent
of the flower from her backyard.
Desire to give and live
revealed in her hands.
I know the poet loved her
and put her in his song.
And that his song cried
when he saw her leave.
From Dark-Skinned Buenos Aires...
eyes of flame and miracle.
Forges of kisses that give
her lips burning...
When she returns to the South,
not even the kisses reach her.
She flashes with love
and the goodbye drains her.
She must be stolen from the South
and brought to life.
Give the night the light
of her stolen laughter.
I know the poet trembled
when he could find her.
She returned to his arms
through Southern paths.
From Dark-Skinned Buenos Aires...
She must be stolen through singing.
Drunk birds and stars
are calling her.
And the wind's cicadas
hang their song on her.