Текст и перевод песни Ismael Serrano - Mañana Porteña en Madrid

Mañana Porteña en Madrid

Todos los días lo encontraba
En el mismo autobús, el mismo viaje.
Le oía platicar y nos hablaba
De las calles de Boedo en Buenos Aires.

Tardes de truco y los amigos,
Los pibes, la vieja y esas noches
De diciembre en el portal de cada casa.
Y era todo tan suave como un roce.

Su soliloquio oíamos, entre paradas,
Y Argentina, despacito, se colaba
En la mañana fría y los viajeros
Sonreían escuchando sus palabras.

Nos hablaba del temor y la miseria,
De la crisis que ennegrece estos días
Y recordaba antes de que todo estallara:
él tuvo planes, futuro, toda una vida.

Y el autobús callaba y de repente
Habitábamos todos un colectivo
Recorriendo, cansado, Buenos Aires,
Por las calles de un Madrid lleno de frío.

Ahora, decía, estaba bárbaro:
Tenía un buen laburo y ya su jefe
Le había prometido que muy pronto
Le arreglaría todos los papeles.

Y muy pronto los pibes y la vieja
Se vendrían acá. Todo se arregla.
"Cuestión de confianza", nos decía.
El futuro ha de venir en primavera.

Y me parece oír un dulce tango,
Y no sé si eres vos o si sos tú,
Entre el yira o tal vez la última curda,
Tenés el corazón mirando al sur.

Cada mañana nos toca leer
Nuevas leyes contra el viajero que llega.
Entonces pienso en él. Ruego a los dioses
Que guarden su camino y lo protejan.

No lo hemos vuelto a ver. Hará
Tres meses desde el tiempo en que decía
Que se sentía tan bien acá en España...
Igual que si estuviera en su Argentina.

Buenos Aires Morning in Madrid

I'd find him every day
On the same bus, the same trip.
I'd hear him chat and he'd tell us
Of the streets of Boedo in Buenos Aires.

Afternoons of card games and friends,
The kids, the old lady and those nights
In December on the doorstep of each house.
And it was all as soft as a caress.

Between stops, we'd listen to his soliloquy,
And Argentina, gently, would slip
Into the cold morning and the passengers
Would smile listening to his words.

He'd talk to us about fear and poverty,
Of the crisis that darkens these days
And he'd remember before it all blew up:
He had plans, a future, a whole life.

And the bus would fall silent and suddenly
We were all living on a bus
Tiredly touring Buenos Aires,
Through the streets of a Madrid full of cold.

Now, he said, things were great:
He had a good job and his boss had
Promised him that very soon
He'd fix all his papers.

And very soon the kids and the old lady
Would come here. Everything fixes itself.
"Just a matter of trust," he'd tell us.
The future is bound to come in spring.

And I can almost hear a sweet tango,
And I don't know if it's you or it's you,
Between the yira or maybe the last bender,
Your heart is looking to the south.

Every morning we have to read
New laws against the arriving traveler.
So I think of him. I pray to the gods
That they guard his path and protect him.

We haven't seen him again. It will be
Three months since when he said
That he felt so good here in Spain...
Just like he was in his Argentina.