Текст и перевод песни Joan Manuel Serrat - Del Pasado Efímero (Españolito)

Del Pasado Efímero (Españolito)

Este hombre del casino provinciano
Que vio a Carancha recibir un día,
Tiene mustia la tez, el pelo cano,
Ojos velados por melancolía;
Bajo el bigote gris, labios de hastío,
Y una triste expresión, que no es tristeza,
Sino algo más y menos: el vacío
Del mundo en la oquedad de su cabeza.
Aún luce de corinto terciopelo
Chaqueta y pantalón abotinado,
Y un cordobés color de caramelo,
Pulido y torneado.
Tres veces heredó; tres ha perdido
Al monte su caudal; dos ha enviudado.
Sólo se anima ante el azar prohibido,
Sobre el verde tapete reclinado,
O al evocar la tarde de un torero,
La suerte de un tahúr, o si alguien cuenta
La hazaña de un gallardo bandolero,
O la proeza de un matón, sangrienta.
Bosteza de política banales
Dicterios al gobierno reaccionario,
Y augura que vendrán los liberales,
Cual torna la cigüeña al campanario.
Un poco labrador, del cielo aguarda
Y al cielo teme; alguna vez suspira,
Pensando en su olivar, y al cielo mira
Con ojo inquieto, si la lluvia tarda.
Lo demás, taciturno, hipocondriaco,
Prisionero en la Arcadia del presente,
Le aburre; sólo el humo del tabaco
Simula algunas sombras en su frente.
Este hombre no es de ayer ni es de mañana,
Sino de nunca; de la cepa hispana
No es el fruto maduro ni podrido,
Es una fruta vana
De aquella España que pasó y no ha sido,
Esa que hoy tiene la cabeza cana.

Of the Ephemeral Past (Little Spaniard)

This man from the provincial casino
Who saw Carancha receive one day,
Has a sallow complexion, grey hair,
Eyes veiled with melancholy;
Beneath his grey mustache, lips of weariness,
And a sad expression, which is not sadness,
But something more and less: the emptiness
Of the world in the hollow of his head.
He still wears a velvet jacket
And flared trousers of Corinth,
And a Cordovan hat the color of caramel,
Burnished and polished.
Thrice he has inherited; thrice he has lost
His fortune at cards; twice he has been widowed.
He only comes to life in the face of forbidden luck,
Reclining on the green felt,
Or when recalling the afternoon of a bullfighter,
The fate of a gambler, or if someone tells
The feat of a gallant bandit,
Or the bloody prowess of a goon.
He yawns at political banalities
And inveighs against the reactionary government,
And predicts that the liberals will come,
As the stork returns to the bell tower.
A bit of a farmer, he looks to the sky
And fears the sky; sometimes he sighs,
Thinking of his olive grove, and looks to the sky
With restless eyes, if the rain is late.
Otherwise, taciturn, hypochondriac,
A prisoner in the Arcadia of the present,
He is bored; only the tobacco smoke
Simulates some shadows on his forehead.
This man is neither here nor there,
But of always; of the Hispanic stock
He is neither the ripe nor the rotten fruit,
He is a vain fruit
From that Spain that has passed and has not been,
The one that today has a hoary head.