Ay, Soledad
Iban muchachos desnudos,
ay, soledad de la luna,
a torear junto al río
hambres de sueño y fortuna.
Planta sus pies frente al toro
y se queda solo y es una escultura,
y esa belleza desnuda
templa, para y manda por la madrugá,
que el pulso de las muñecas
a su boca seca más valor le da.
La luna llega y la para
qué estampa,
luego, mandando, la templa,
y el campo que lo contempla
se inventa
silencios de Maestranza.
Y en este verte y no verte
la luna en el horizonte
sabe ya que es Juan Belmonte
que va cargando la suerte, que va
que va cargando la suerte.
Eran los años oscuros
y anochecer de una vida
tu nombre está en el toreo,
bien ganaste la partía.
A solas está de nuevo,
campo, tierra y cielo, igual que aquel día
y encierra un toro en la plaza,
templa, para y manda, la luna no está,
ay si la luna estuviera
mala compañera es la soledad.
La muerte llega y la para,
qué estampa,
luego, mandando, la templa,
y el campo que lo contempla
se inventa
silencios de Maestranza.
Y en este verte y no verte
rompe el vuelo una paloma
y suena aquella pistola
que va cargando tu muerte, que va
que va cargando tu muerte.
Ay, Solitude
Naked boys were going,
oh, solitude of the moon,
to bullfight by the river
hungers for sleep and fortune.
He plants his feet in front of the bull
and he stays alone and is a sculpture,
and that naked beauty
temper, stop and command through the early morning,
that the pulse of the wrists
gives more value to his dry mouth.
The moon arrives and stops him
what a sight,
then, commanding, he tempers it,
and the countryside that contemplates him
invents
silences of the bullring.
And in this seeing and not seeing
the moon on the horizon
already knows that it is Juan Belmonte
who is loading the luck, who is
who is loading the luck.
They were the dark years
and the nightfall of a life
your name is in bullfighting,
you won the game.
Alone he is again,
countryside, earth, and sky, just like that day
and he locks a bull in the arena,
temper, stop and command, the moon is not there,
oh if the moon were there
solitude is a bad companion.
Death arrives and stops him,
what a sight,
then, commanding, he tempers it,
and the countryside that contemplates him
invents
silences of the bullring.
And in this seeing and not seeing
a dove breaks its flight
and that gun sounds
that is loading your death, that is
that is loading your death.