Joan Manuel Serrat "… De cartón piedra" lírica

Traducción al: EN

Era la Gloria vestida de tul
con la mirada lejana y azul
que sonreía en un escaparate
con la boquita menuda y granate,
y unos zapatos de falso charol
que chispeaban al roce del sol.

Limpia y bonita. Siempre iba a la moda.
Arregladita como pa' ir de boda.

Y yo, a todas horas la iba a ver
porque yo amaba a esa mujer
de cartón piedra,
que de San Esteban a Navidades,
entre saldos y novedades,
hacía más tierna mi acera.

No era como esas muñecas de abril
que me arañaron de frente y perfil.
Que se comieron mi naranja a gajos.
Que me arrancaron la ilusión de cuajo.
Con la presteza que da el alquiler,
olvida el aire que respiró ayer.

Juega las cartas que le da el momento:
"mañana" es sólo un adverbio de tiempo.

No, no. Ella esperaba en su vitrina
verme doblar aquella esquina...
Como una novia,
como un pajarillo, pidiéndome:
"libérame, libérame...
y huyamos a escribir la historia".

De una pedrada me cargué el cristal
y corrí, corrí, corrí con ella hasta mi portal.
Todo su cuerpo me tembló en los brazos.
Nos sonreía la luna de marzo.
Bajo la lluvia bailamos un vals,
un, dos, tres, un, dos, tres... todo daba igual.

Y yo le hablaba de nuestro futuro,
y ella lloraba en silencio... os lo juro.

Y entre cuatro paredes y un techo
se reventó contra su pecho
pena tras pena.
Tuve entre mis manos el universo
e hicimos del pasado un verso
perdido dentro de un poema.

Y entonces, llegaron ellos.
Me sacaron a empujones de mi casa
y me encerraron entre estas cuatro paredes blancas,
donde vienen a verme mis amigos
de mes en mes...,
de dos en dos...,
y de seis a siete...

She was glory dressed in tulle
with the gaze distant and blue
who would smile in the shop window
with lips thin and maroon
and false patent-leather shoes
that would sparkle at the touch of the sun.

Clean and beautiful. She was always in style.
Well-dressed as if to attend a wedding.

And I, at all hours would go to see her
because I loved this woman
of papier mâché,
from St. Stephen's to the Epiphany,
between bargains and news
my sexual preferences were getting more soft.

She wasn't like one of those dolls from April
that scratched me from the front and on the side.
That ate my orange in segments.
That stripped me of laid-back anticipation.
With the promptness that rent is paid,
she forgets the air that yesterday she breathed.

She plays the cards that the moments gives her:
"tomorrow" is only an adverb of time.

No, no. She was waiting in her window
watching me turn that corner…
Like a girlfriend,
like a little birdie, demanding me:
"Liberate me, liberate me…
and let's flee to write a story."

With a throw of a stone I took out the window
and I ran, ran, ran with with to my door.
Her entire body trembled in my arms.
The moon of March smiled to us.
Under the rain we danced a waltz,
one, two, three, one, two, three… it all made no difference.

And I was speaking to her about our future,
and she was crying in silent… I swear you it.

And between four walls and a roof
it crashed against her chest
pain after pain.
I had between my hands the universe
and of the past we made a verse
lost within a poem.

And then, they arrived.
They took me by force from my home
and they locked me in between these four white walls,
where my friends come to see me
from month to month…,
from two to two…,
and from six to seven…