Текст и перевод песни Andrés Calamaro - Biromes y servilletas (Romaphonic)

Biromes y servilletas (Romaphonic)

En Montevideo hay poetas, poetas, poetas
Que sin bombos ni trompetas, trompetas, trompetas
Van saliendo de recónditos altillos, altillos, altillos
De paredes de silencios de redonda con puntillo.
Salen de agujeros mal tapados, tapados, tapados
Y proyectos no alcanzados cansados, cansados
Que regresan en fantasmas de colores, colores, colores
A pintarte las ojeras y pedirte que no llores.
Tienen ilusiones compartidas partidas, partidas
Pesadillas adheridas heridas, heridas
Cañerías de palabras confundidas fundidas, fundidas
A su triste paso lento por las calles y avenidas.
No pretenden glorias ni laureles, laureles, laureles
Solo pasan a papeles, papeles, papeles,
Experiencias totalmente personales, zonales, zonales
Elementos muy parciales que juntados no son tales.
Hablan de la aurora hasta cansarse, cansarse, cansarse
Sin tener miedo a plagiarse, plagiarse, plagiarse
Nada de eso importa ya mientras escriban, escriban, escriban
Su mana su locura su neurosis obsesiva.
Andan por las calles los poetas, poetas, poetas
Como si fueran cometas, cometas, cometas
En un denso cielo de metal fundido, fundido, fundido
Impenetrable, desastroso, lamentable y aburrido.
En Montevideo hay biromes, biromes, biromes
Desangradas en renglones, renglones, renglones
De palabras retorciéndose confusas, confusas, confusas
En delgadas servilletas como alcohólicas reclusas.
Andan por las calles escribiendo y viendo y viendo
Lo que ven lo van diciendo y siendo y siendo
Ellos poetas a la vez que se pasean, pasean, pasean
Van contando lo que ven, y lo que no, lo fantasean.
Miran para el cielo los poetas, poetas, poetas
Como si fueran saetas, saetas, saetas
Arrojadas al espacio que un rodeo, rodeo, rodeo
Hiciera regresar para clavarlas en Montevideo.

Biromes and Napkins (Romaphonic)

In Montevideo, there are poets, poets, poets
Who without drums or fanfare, fanfare, fanfare
Are emerging from hidden attics, attics, attics
With wall soundproofed with silence of round notes with a dot.
They emerge from poorly-patched holes, holes, holes
And unfulfilled projects, tired, tired
Returning as colorful ghosts, colors, colors
To paint your dark circles and ask you not to cry.
They have shared illusions, divided, divided
Attached nightmares, wounds, wounds
Pipes of confused, melted words, melted, melted
In their sad, slow march through the streets and avenues.
They seek no glories or laurels, laurels, laurels
They only transfer to paper, paper, paper
Completely personal, local experiences, locales, locales
Partial elements that, when combined, are not such.
They speak of dawn until they grow weary, weary, weary
Without fear of plagiarism, plagiarism, plagiarism
None of that matters while they write, write, write
Their manna, their madness, their obsessive neurosis.
Poets walk the streets, poets, poets
As if they were comets, comets, comets
In a dense sky of molten metal, molten, molten
Impenetrable, disastrous, wretched, and dull.
In Montevideo, there are pens, pens, pens
Bleeding in lines, lines, lines
With twisted, confused words, confused, confused
On thin napkins like reclusive alcoholics.
They walk the streets, writing and seeing and seeing
What they see, they tell and feel and feel
Poets who, while they wander, wander, wander
Narrate what they see and what they don't, they dream up.
Poets look to the sky, poets, poets
As if they were arrows, arrows, arrows
Shot into space that makes a detour, detour, detour
For them to return and spear themselves in Montevideo.