Текст и перевод песни Jaime Roos - Biromes y Servilletas

Biromes y Servilletas

En Montevideo hay poetas poetas poetas
Que sin bombos ni trompetas trompetas trompetas
Van saliendo de recnditos 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
Caeras de palabras confundidas fundidas fundidas
A su triste paso lento por las calles y avenidas.

No pretenden glorias ni laureles, laureles, laureles
Slo 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 retorcindose confusas, confusas, confusas
En delgadas servilletas como alcohlicas 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

Pens and Napkins

In Montevideo, there are poets, poets, poets
Who without fanfare or trumpets, trumpets, trumpets
Are emerging from hidden nooks and crannies, nooks and crannies, nooks and crannies
From walls of silence with dotted notes.

They come out of ill-sealed holes, holes, holes
And unrealized projects, tired, tired, tired
That return as colorful ghosts, ghosts, ghosts
To paint your dark circles and ask you not to cry.

They have shared, broken dreams, dreams, dreams
Clinging nightmares, wounds, wounds, wounds
Waterfalls of confused words, melted, melted, melted
In their sad, slow passage through the streets and avenues.

They don't seek glory or laurels, laurels, laurels
They just commit to paper, paper, paper,
Experiences that are completely personal, zonal, zonal
Partly true elements that together are not so.

They speak of the dawn until they're tired, tired, tired
Unafraid to plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize
None of that matters as long as they write, write, write
Their manna, their madness, their obsessive neurosis.

The poets, poets, poets walk the streets
Like kites, kites, kites
In a dense sky of molten metal, molten, molten, molded
Impenetrable, disastrous, regrettable, and boring.

In Montevideo, there are pens, pens, pens
Bleeding into lines, lines, lines
Of confused, twisted words, confused, confused, confused
On thin napkins like alcoholic recluses.

They walk the streets writing and seeing and seeing
What they see they go on saying and being and being
They are poets as they wander, wander, wander
They tell of what they see, and what they don't, they imagine.

The poets, poets, poets gaze at the sky
Like arrows, arrows, arrows
Shot into space, they take a detour, detour, detour
And return to stick into Montevideo.