Текст и перевод песни Joan Manuel Serrat - La Casita Blanca

La Casita Blanca

En ese abrevadero
Amable y romántico,
El amor fue amo y señor
Y hoy bajo su alero
No anidan más pájaros
Que las palomas donde da el sol.
Quizá le llamaban La Casita Blanca
Por tener terraza de sábana inquieta
O quizá porque
El amor furtivo
Tiene ojos de amigo
Y pluma de poeta
Y en sus pasillos
Extravió unos calzoncillos.
Cuidó gentilmente
Y por un precio módico
Aquel desliz madrugador,
Cuando ella con la compra
Y usted con el periódico
Desayunaban incierto amor
O cuando una boca murmuró al oído
El lenguaje tibio de la ropa blanca.
Cuando los bolsillos
Rebosaban besos.
La Casita Blanca
Le proporcionaba
"Algo" discreto
Donde encerrar un secreto.
Un mundo de espejos
A media luz pálida
Y un perfume familiar
Que se acurrucan contra
La puerta metálica
Que ha clausurado la autoridad.
Los vecinos hablan... Las brujas retozan...
Y un par de pichones huye al descampado
Y un viejo ex-cliente,
Pura sensatez,
Hace bloques de
Pisos amueblados
En un tono rosa.
Pero aquello era otra cosa.

The Little White House

My dearest, at that watering hole
So amiable and romantic,
Love was master and lord
And today, beneath its eaves
No more birds nest
Than the doves in the sun.
Perhaps they called it The Little White House
Because it had a terrace like a restless sheet
Or perhaps because
Surreptitious love
Has the eyes of a friend
And the pen of a poet
And in its hallways
Lost a pair of briefs.
She took care of him gently
And for a small fee
That early morning slip,
When she with the groceries
And you with the newspaper
Were having an uncertain breakfast of love
Or when a mouth whispered in your ear
The warm language of white linen.
When your pockets
Overflowed with kisses.
The Little White House
Provided you with
"Something" discreet
Where a secret could be locked away.
A world of mirrors
In pale half-light
And a familiar scent
That snuggled up against
The metal door
That the authorities had sealed.
The neighbors talk... The witches play...
And a pair of pigeons flee to the open field
And an old ex-client,
The epitome of common sense,
Makes blocks of
Furnished flats
In a shade of pink.
But that was something else entirely.