Текст и перевод песни Ástor Piazzolla con Roberto Goyeneche - La Muerte del Angel

La Muerte del Angel

Por las noches, carasucia,
De angelito con bluejean,
Vende rosas en las mesas,
Del boliche de Bachin,
Si la luna brilla,
Sobre la parrilla,
Come luna y pan de hollin.
Cada dia, en su tristeza,
Que no quiere amanecer,
Lo madruga un 6 de enero,
Con la estrella del revés,
Y tres reyes gatos,
Roban sus zapatos,
Uno izquierdo y el otro tambien,

Chiquilin, dame un ramo de vos,
Asi salgo a vender,
Mis vergüenzas, en flor,
Baleame con tres rosas,
Que duelan a cuenta,
Del hambre que no te entendi,
Chiquilín.
Cuando el sol,
Pone a los chicos,
Delatales de aprender,
él aprende cuantos ceros,
Le quedaban por saber,
Y a su madre mira,
Yira que te yira,
Pero no la quiere ver.
Cada aurora, en la basura,
Con un pan, y un tallarin,
Se fabrica un barrilete,
Para irse y sigue aqui,
Es un hombre extraño,
Niño de mil años,
Que por dentro
Le enreda el piolin.
Choquilín, dame un ramo se vos...

The Death of the Angel

My little darling, your face sooty,
Like an angel in bluejeans,
You sell roses at the tables,
Of Bachin's boliche,
If the moon shines,
Over the grill,
You eat moon and soot bread.
Every day, in your sadness,
That doesn't want to dawn,
You are awakened on January 6th,
With the star upside down,
And three cat kings,
Steal your shoes,
One left and the other too,

My little one, give me a bouquet of yourself,
So I can go out and sell,
My shames, in bloom,
Shoot me with three roses,
That hurt on account,
Of the hunger that I didn't understand you,
My little one.
When the sun,
Puts the kids,
In front of their lessons,
He learns how many zeros,
Were left for him to know,
And looks at his mother,
Spinning and spinning,
But he doesn't want to see her.
Every dawn, in the garbage,
With a bun and a noodle,
He builds a kite,
To leave and still stay here,
He is a strange man,
A thousand-year-old child,
That inside
His string is tangled.
My little one, give me a bouquet of yourself...