Son los artistas, equilibristas
Son los artistas, equilibristas
Son como niños, buscando abrigo,
pájaros tristes, soñando amigos.
Entre el delirio y la cordura,
juegan sus sueños de locura.
Sin los artistas, equilibristas,
en el andamio de sus engaños.
Vienen y van sin descansar,
magos del aire, bufones, frailes
de un Dios de cristales de color.
De la risa al dolor y del llanto al amor,
del drama a la comedia, hay de todo en la feria
cuando levanta un hombre su telón.
Viven al día, sufren y esperan,
son importantes, son emigrantes.
Fundan tablados, son adorados,
son bien amados, son insultados.
Son buena gente entre la gente.
Pasan a solas sus malas horas.
Aplausos y fracasos, ahí están los artistas,
poniéndole a la vida el corazón.
They are the artists, tightrope walkers
They are the artists, tightrope walkers
They are like children, seeking shelter,
sad birds, dreaming of friends.
Between delirium and sanity,
they play their dreams of madness.
Without the artists, tightrope walkers,
on the scaffold of their deceptions.
They come and go without rest,
masters of the air, jesters, friars
of a God of colorful crystals.
From laughter to pain and from tears to love,
from drama to comedy, there is everything in the fair
when a man raises his curtain.
They live day by day, they suffer and hope,
they are important, they are immigrants.
They found stages, they are adored,
they are well loved, they are insulted.
They are good people among the people.
They spend their bad hours alone.
Applause and failures, there are the artists,
putting their heart into life.