Paroles et traduction Anibal Troilo - El Bulín de la Calle Ayacucho

El Bulín de la Calle Ayacucho

El bulin de la calle Ayacucho
Que en mis tiempos de rana alquilaba,
El bulin que la barra buscaba
Para caer por la noche a timbear;
El bulin donde tantos muchachos
En su racha de vida fulera
Encontraron marroco y catrera,
Rechiflado parece llorar.

El "primus" no me fallaba
Con su carga de agua ardiente
Y habiendo agua caliente
El mate era alli señor;
No faltaba la guitarra
Bien encordada y lustrosa
Ni el bacan de voz gangosa
Con berretin de cantor.

Cotorrito mistongo tirado
En el fondo de aquel conventillo,
Sin alfombras, sin lujo y sin brillo,
Cuantos dias felices pase
Al calor del querer de una piba
Que fue mia, mimosa y sincera,
Y una noche de invierno y fulera
En un vuelo, hacia el cielo se fue.

Cada cosa era un recuerdo
Que la vida me anargaba,
Por eso me la pasaba
Cabrero, rante y triston;
Los muchachos se cortaron
Al verme tan afligido,
Y yo me quede en el nido
Empollando mi aflicción.

El bulin de la calle Ayacucho
Ha quedado mistongo y fulero,
Ya no se oye al cantor milonguero
Engrupido su musa entonar;
Y en el "primus" no bulle la pava
Que a la barra contenta reunia,
Y el bacan de la rante alegria
Esta seco de tanto llorar.

The Speakeasy on Ayacucho Street

The speakeasy on Ayacucho Street
That I rented when I was a young frog,
The speakeasy that the group would seek out
To come gamble at night;
The speakeasy where so many boys
In their flush of life as layabouts
Found a safe haven and a bed,
It seems to weep in desolation.

I never ran out of "primus"
With its load of firewater
And with hot water
Maté was the king there;
The guitar was never absent
Well-strung and gleaming
Nor the tough guy with his raspy voice
With the obsession of a singer.

Rambunctious little parrot thrown out
Into the back of that tenement,
Without carpets, without luxury and without shine,
How many happy days I spent
In the warmth of the love of a girl
Who was mine, tender and true,
And one cold and wretched winter night
She flew away to heaven.

Each thing was a memory
That life burdened me with,
That's why I kept myself
Headstrong, quarrelsome and sad;
The boys cut themselves off
Seeing me so afflicted,
And I stayed in the nest
Brooding on my affliction.

The speakeasy on Ayacucho Street
Has become wretched and desolate,
The singing milonguero is no longer heard
Charming his muse to sing;
And the water does not boil in the "primus"
That would bring the group together in happiness,
And the tough guy with his lively joy
Is withered from all the crying.