The day that I leave






Carlos Di Fulvio (*1939): The chacarera, on a Quechua melody, sung by Sebastiano Solís. From the CD El Gaucho, el Inca y la Nueva Música (1982).

Hace tiempo voy buscando por ahí
una chacarera
entre los montes que hay en el pago
campo afuera
campos de la rudita,
monte adentro 'e Tulumba
la he de encontrar linda en su bata de percal
baila Doña Dominga
la chacarera.

Abajito de un tala la vi
por ser montaraza
y unos crisoles de leña mansa
la aromaban.
La aromaban con su olor
unos gajos de tala
que supo cortar mi amigo Don Vimas al caer
el invierno pasado para su corral.
Y en la tierrita suelta al barrer
de las alpargatas
entre los montes subió la luna
pa' alumbrarla.

Como nube en el alba quedó un polvaderal
ojito, hay tala, flecos de luna, la chacarera.

Con su bata de puro percal
va Doña Dominga
todas las flores que hay en el monte
se la envidian.
Se la envidian porque no hay
color más hermoso
que el de su percal,
ni moza que sepa regalar
el donaire que tiene su buen zarandear.
Y las niñas quisieran bailar
como lo hace ella
la trenza al viento y una manito
en la cadera.

Su cadera es un vaivén parecido al del mimbre
y al sauce también,
esa es mi abuela se saben decir
los changos del monte en cuantito la ven.
Si a los setenta la baila asi,
¡lo que ha sido enantes!, una corzuela,
lujosa de ágil, dejen nomás.

Como nube en el alba quedó un polvaderal
ojito hay tala, flecos de luna, la chacarera.
For a long time I’ve been looking
for a chacarera
here between the mountains, on the clearing
over the fields
over the fallow fields
on the mountains above Tulumba
there I found her as in her calico coat was
beautifully dancing Doña Dominga
the chacarera.

I saw her near to a fallen tree
for she is a forest girl
and some boughs of apple tree
lent their fragrance to her.
To her lent their fragrance
the twigs of apple tree
cut by my friend Don Vivas at the beginning
of last winter in his courtyard.
And in the clearing swept clean
by the canvas shoes
between the mountains the moon rose
to shed light on her.

Cloud of the soul, light dust was lifting above
the twigs: fringes of the moon: the chacarera!

In her clean calico coat is dancing
Doña Dominga,
all the flowers in the mountains
envy her.
They envy her because there is
no color more beautiful
than the color of her calico, neither
girl who knows how to dance it
with more grace than her swinging.
How the girls would love to dance
as she is dancing
her braids in the wind and her hand
on her hip.

Her hip is swinging as the wicker
and as the willow tree,
this is my grandmother, as every mountain
Chango can say it as soon as he sees her!
If at seventy she dances like this
what a gracious doe she was before,
more agile than anyone else!

Cloud of the soul, light dust was lifting above
the twigs: fringes of the moon: the chacarera!




 Pollença. Carrer de Montision, c. 1900










Facundo Cabral: The day that I leave. Music and song by Sebastiano Solís. From the CD El Gaucho, el Inca y la Nueva Música (1982).

The Argentine poet Facundo Cabral (*1937) grew up in an asylum. “I did not speak until I was nine years old, I was illiterate until the age of fourteen, at forty-six I first met my father. After escaping the asylum, I learned singing from peasants. On 24 February 1954 a tramp recited to me the Sermon on the Mount, and I discovered that I was reborn. Then I wrote the lullaby Vuele bajo. This is how it all started.”

Una milonga sureña
un par de botas tejanas,
una esperanza infinita
y una flor en la ventana.
Una canción inconclusa
y un jorongo mexicano,
amores en todo el mundo
y nada preso en la mano.
Un amigo en el desierto
y un maestro en la montaña,
la libertad más hermosa
y la idea más extraña.
Esas cosas dejaré
el día que yo me vaya,
querida perdóname
si a ti no te dejo nada.

Una cerveza en Holanda
un pintor en Salamanca,
una hoguera junto al Nilo,
un poema en Casablanca.
Una pregunta en el aire
y una respuesta en el alma,
las noches en el mar Rojo,
y los veranos de España.
La voluntad y el delirio,
una vieja gorra griega
un turbante del Neguev,
dos máscaras, una quena.
Esas cosas dejaré
el día que yo me muera,
querida perdóname
si a ti no te dejo nada.

La lluvia sobre Marruecos,
en el bolso, pan y queso,
y la Biblia liberando
a mis sueños y a mis huesos.
La locura satisfecha
y la conciencia tranquila,
los temores que perdí
en París o Alejandría.
Amo y señor de mí mismo
sin bandera y sin espada,
al viento devolveré
las maravillas prestadas.
Las alegrías de ser
y hacer lo que uno ama,
querida perdóname,
si a ti no te dejo nada.
A southern milonga
a pair of boots from Texas
an infinite hope
a flower in the window
an unfinished song
and a Mexican poncho
lovers all over the world
and nothing in my hand
a friend in the desert
and in the mountains a master
the most beautiful freedom
and the weirdest idea
– those things I will leave
the day that I leave.
Forgive me, my dear if I
don’t leave anything to you.

A beer in the Netherlands
a painter in Salamanca
a fire along the Nile
a poem in Casablanca
a question in the wind
and an answer in the soul
the nights of the Red Sea
and the springs of Spain
the will and the delirium
an old Greek cap, a turban
from the Negev desert,
two masks, a Quechua flute
– those things I will leave
the day that I die.
Forgive me, my dear if I
don’t leave anything to you.

The rain on Morocco
bread and cheese in the bag
and the Bible which liberates
my dreams and my bones,
the happy madness
and the calm conscience,
the fears that I lost
in Paris or Alexandria.
Master and lord of myself
without a flag and a sword
I will let into the wind
the borrowed marvels
the joys of being
and that I do what I love.
Forgive me, my dear if I
don’t leave anything to you.








2 comentarios:

Megkoronáz, AJP dijo...

I particularly like the gridded iron gate in the stone wall and the cockerel on the stone ball. Well, except that I liked everything else too.

Studiolum dijo...

Thanks a lot! Yes, this place and these photos are very evocative for me too.