La Muerte Con Anteojos
Todas las noches conmigo
Se acuesta a dormir un muerto
Aunque esté vivo y despierto;
Confuso es lo que les digo,
Que es una mortaja, amigo,
Que se alimenta de hinojo,
Después se lava los ojos
Pa' reposar en la tumba
Y a mi lado se derrumba
Este finado de anteojos.
Se arrancó del cementerio
Con una corona puesta;
Una mujer deshonesta
Le hizo perder el criterio,
Esto pa' naide' es misterio,
Lo digo con amargura
Aunque yo tenga buenura,
Al muerto poco le importa
Y como esta vida es corta
Anda con tanta locura.
De qué le sirve el consuelo,
Tal esqueleto es la muerte;
De qué me sirve la suerte
Si me da tanto desvelo,
Me está causando recelo,
El frío lo tiene mudo
Pero a su llamado acudo
Porque así será el destino
Este finado ladino
Quiso ser mío y no pudo.
Debo de ser muy fatal
Pa' venir de san clemente
A probar inútilmente
Lo amargo de este panal;
Es poca toda la sal
Que hay en la pampa de chile
Pa' curarle las cien miles
Angustias que le dejaron
Coquetas que lo humillaron
Dejándolo sin abriles.
Por fin, amables oyentes,
Les pido con devoción:
Recemos una oración
Por este muerto viviente,
Es finado inteligente
Por eso es que yo lo estimo,
A su muerte yo me arrimo
Con esperanza y con fe
Pero qué hacer yo no sé,
Y si lo sé no me animo.
Death with Glasses
Every night with me
A dead man goes to sleep
Even though he's alive and awake;
Confused is what I tell you,
That it's a shroud, friend,
That feeds on fennel,
Then washes his eyes
To rest in the grave
And next to me collapses
This deceased man with glasses.
He escaped from the cemetery
With a crown on his head;
An unfaithful woman
Made him lose his mind,
This is no mystery to anyone,
I say it with bitterness
Even though I have goodness,
The dead man cares little
And as this life is short
He walks with such madness.
What good is comfort to him,
Such a skeleton is death;
What good is luck to me
If it causes me so much distress,
It's making me wary,
The cold has him silent
But I respond to his call
Because that will be his fate
This cunning deceased
Wanted to be mine and couldn't.
I must be very fateful
To come from San Clemente
To try in vain
The bitterness of this beehive;
All the salt is little
In the Chilean pampa
To heal the hundred thousand
Anguishes that were left
By coquettes who humiliated him
Leaving him without years.
Finally, kind listeners,
I ask you with devotion:
Let's say a prayer
For this living dead man,
He's an intelligent deceased
That's why I esteem him,
I approach his death
With hope and faith
But what to do I don't know,
And if I do, I don't dare.