Balada Para Un Trovador
Los zapatos agujereados,
la ropa llena de polvo,
y en la boca temblorosa
siempre lleva un canto muy dulce.
El país por el que camina
no es otro que su país.
Y el vino con el que moja su garganta
no es otro que su vino.
No era extraño en ningún rincón.
Ya era viejo el trovador.
Cantó para princesas
en grandes palacios deslumbrantes.
Ha saltado muros, ha abierto puertas
cerradas con doble llave,
cuando tenía la voz clara
como la piel de sus amores,
cuando, por la noche, le cubrían
sábanas blancas bordadas con flores.
Las flores ya han perdido su olor.
Ya era viejo el trovador.
Hoy ha cambiado de alcobas.
Ahora que ha perdido las llaves,
una choza de adobes
le parece todo un palacio
donde su canción se eleva
por un plato y un vaso de vino.
Pastoras y taberneras
son sus flores de noche.
Todo se deshoja en otoño.
Ya era viejo el trovador.
Y mañana, cuando salga el sol
ha de seguir su camino.
Llegará a otro pueblo
y se irá de allí
con los zapatos agujereados,
la ropa llena de polvo,
y en la boca temblorosa
se llevará su canto tan dulce.
Ballad for a Troubadour
Worn-out shoes,
Clothes covered in dust,
And in his trembling mouth
He always carries a very sweet song.
The country he walks through
Is none other than his own country.
And the wine he wets his throat with
Is none other than his wine.
He was not a stranger in any corner.
The troubadour was already old.
He sang for princesses
In grand dazzling palaces.
He jumped walls, he opened doors
Closed with a double lock,
When he had a clear voice
Like the skin of his loves,
When, at night, he was covered
With white sheets embroidered with flowers.
The flowers have lost their scent.
The troubadour was already old.
Today he has changed bedrooms.
Now that he has lost the keys,
A mud hut
Seems like a palace to him
Where his song rises
With a plate and a glass of wine.
Shepherds and tavern keepers
Are his night flowers.
Everything falls apart in autumn.
The troubadour was already old.
And tomorrow, when the sun rises,
He must continue his journey.
He will arrive at another town
And leave from there
With worn-out shoes,
Clothes covered in dust,
And in his trembling mouth
He will carry his song so sweet.
Escrita por: J. M. Serrat