Текст и перевод песни Amelita Baltar - Fabula Para Gardel

Fabula Para Gardel

Ayer me preguntaste, hijito mío,
Por primera vez,
Quién es
Ese Gardel, ese fantasma
Tan arisco,
Empecinado
Con seguir guardado
En la cueva con asma
De su disco
Polvoriento.

Lo que yo sé,
Te lo cuento:
Algunas veces,
Cuando te has dormido,
Las noches en que hay pena
Llena,
Se aparece
Ese escondido
Duende, medio juglar
Y medio loco,
Para matear
Con tu padre y conversar
Un poco.

Ah, si lo pudieras
Ver
Con su sencilla elegancia fantasmera,
A saber:
En una chalina ligera
De plumas de torcaza sola
Sus hombros arrebuja.
El traje es de
Cuerdas de guitarras españolas
Que
Alguna bruja
ñata
Y hippie le ha tejido.

La corbata
Es de claveles
Encendidos,
Para abrigar los
Cascabeles
De su voz.
Y dos
Zapatos, muy de peregrino,
Que no son zapatos, sino
Que son caminos.

¿Qué en dónde nació?
Hijo mío, ¡qué se yo!
De acuerdo a lo que el mismo me ha contado,
Parece que nació trepado
A una veleta
Niña
Que apuntaba al Sur;
Y que un poeta
Y un gallito de riña
Y un augur
Le enseñaron a vivir
Y a sonreír.

Será por eso
Que salió un poco travieso
¿Viste?
Como vos
Y, como yo,
Un cachito triste.

Su sonrisa,
Hijo, es una
Pícara y honda y rara
Raya de tiza
Iluminada con luz de la otra cara
De la luna.

Y canta, canta,
Canta con su voz de siete gritos,
Pero canta, siempre, con ese humilde modo
De quien tiene, por sabio, en la garganta,
Dos ojitos
Que han visto, ya, del hombre, todo, todo.

Su canto, te diría
Que parece
Un claro
Aljibe
En donde crecen
Los tangos pibes
Que no se cantaron,
Todavía;
Y, también, aquellos tangos que ya fueron,
Esos que escriben,
En el paragolpes de su camión,
Los camioneros
Del Cerro y de Constitución.

Después,
El alba ya,
A las cinco en punto,
Se me va. Se va.

Y, tal vez,
En su forma melancólica de irse,
Se adivina, un cacho,
Que ese duende,
Tan muchacho,
Entiende
Mucho de un asunto
Muy sumamente serio, que es morirse.

Ayer me preguntaste, hijito mío,
Por primera vez,
Quién es
Ese Carlitos, ese fantasma
Tan arisco,
Empecinado
Con seguir guardado
En la cueva con asma
De su disco.

Y entonces te conté
Cuanto sabía-

Mas hoy, mirándote,
Pensándote,
Besándote,
Sé un poco más.
Y es que el hijo
Del hijo
De tu hijo, un día,
Un día de Junio soleado,
Frío y seco
Que vendrá,
Lo mismo que vos
Preguntará
Por él.

Y una caliente
Zafra de ecos,
Ecos de la voz de nuestra gente,
Ecos de tu voz
Chiquito, y de la mía,
Inexorablemente,
Gardel, Gardel, Gardel.

Fabula For Gardel

You asked me yesterday, my little son,
For the first time,
Who is
That Gardel, that ghost
So surly,
Stubborn
With continue saved
In the cave with asthma
From his album
Dusty.

What I know,
I'm telling you:
Sometimes,
When you've fallen asleep,
The nights when there is sorrow
Full,
It appears
That hidden
Leprechaun, half a minstrel
And half crazy,
To mate
With your father and talk
A little bit.

Ah, if you could
See
With its simple ghostly elegance,
Namely:
In a light shawl
Of single twisted feathers
His shoulders crumple.
The suit is from
Spanish guitar strings
That
Some witch
nata
And hippie has knitted him.

The tie
It is of carnations
Switched on,
To shelter them
Jingle bells
Of his voice.
And two
Shoes, very pilgrim,
They are not shoes, but
Which are roads.

What, where was he born?
My son, what do I know!
According to what he himself has told me,
It looks like he was born climbing
To a weathervane
Girl
That pointed to the South;
And that a poet
And a bickering cock
And an augur
They taught him to live
And to smile.

It will be because of that
That came out a little naughty
Did you see?
Like you
And, like me,
A sad little piece.

His smile,
Son, it's a
Rogue and sling and weird
Chalk stripe
Illuminated with light from the other side
Of the moon.

And sing, sing,
She sings with her seven-scream voice,
But he sings, always, with that humble way
Of the one who has, by wise, in the throat,
Two little eyes
Who have seen, already, of man, everything, everything.

Her singing, I would tell you
What does it look like
A clear
Cistern
Where they grow
Los tangos pibes
That they were not sung,
Still;
And, also, those tangos that were already,
Those who write,
On the bumper of your truck,
The truckers
Of the Hill and of Constitution.

After,
The dawn is already,
At five o'clock,
It's going away. He's leaving.

And, maybe,
In his melancholy way of leaving,
You guessed it, a cacho,
That this elf,
So boy,
Understand
Much of an issue
Very very serious, which is to die.

You asked me yesterday, my little son,
For the first time,
Who is
That little Carlitos, that ghost
So surly,
Stubborn
With continue saved
In the cave with asthma
Of his record.

And then I told you
How much did he know-

But today, looking at you,
Thinking of you,
Kissing you,
I know a little more.
And it is that the son
Of the son
Of your son, one day,
A sunny June day,
Cold and dry
That will come,
The same as you
He will Ask
For him.

And a hot one
Harvest of echoes,
Echoes of the voice of our people,
Echoes of your voice
Little one, and mine,
Inexorably,
Gardel, Gardel, Gardel.