Текст и перевод песни Teresa Parodi - El Cielo Del Albañil

El Cielo Del Albañil

Allá cerquita del cielo entre los andamios
Sentado como un tropero le está mateando
Igual como si estuviera en medio del campo
Debajo de alguna sombra junto a un remanso

Hablando pocas palabras lo he visto a Vargas
Quedarse así de cuclillas mirando lejos
Cercado entre el hormigón no encuentra su cielo aquí
De balde lo está buscando entre tanto gris

En la radio sin querer como un duende el acordeón
Estirando un chamamé le estremece el corazón
Y hasta le parece angá que si suelta un sapukay
Los peones le han de oír en la estancia el paraisal

Al verlo, sí me parece que anda tropeando
Con su compadre Lalanda como hace tanto
¡Qué pena me da mirarlo entre los andamios!
Con todo ese cielo adentro, como sangrando

Detrás del vuelo aterido de una paloma
Se achican sus ojos negros mirando lejos
Cercado entre el hormigón, el cielo del albañil
Manchado de arena y cal se termina allí

Algún día volverá, le gustaba ser peón
No se halla por acá, ya ha de haber una ocasión
Mientras tanto al escuchar por la radio un chamamé
Él remonta un sapukay, es su modo de volver

Bricklayer's Heaven

Up near the heavens among the scaffolding
He sits like a cowboy and drinks his mate
Just as if he were in the middle of the fields
Beneath some shade next to a backwater

Speaking few words I saw Vargas
Stay like that, squatting, staring into the distance
Surrounded by concrete, he can't find his heaven here
In vain he searches for it amidst so much gray

From the radio, without meaning to, like a sprite, the accordion
Stretching out a chamamé, makes his heart tremble
And it even seems to him, angá, that if he lets out a sapukay
The peons will hear him in the estancia el paraisal

Seeing him, yes, it seems to me that he's tripping
With his compadre Lalanda as he did so long ago
How it pains me to look at him among the scaffolding!
With all that sky within him, as if it were bleeding

Behind the startled flight of a pigeon
His black eyes narrow as he stares into the distance
Confined by concrete, the bricklayer's heaven
Stained with sand and lime, it ends there

Some day he'll return, he used to like being a peon
He doesn't fit in here, there must already be an occasion
Meanwhile, as he listens to a chamamé on the radio
He lets out a sapukay, it's his way of returning