Samara

Here locked up in jail
I remember you crying
and I will die of sorrow
while you are enjoying.

Oh, what pain...

My eyes were going to the source of love
the more water I took
the more times I wanted to return.

In my dreams I called you
and you didn't respond,
at the break of day
I woke up crying
because I couldn't see you.

The one who washed my handkerchief
was a Moorish gypsy,
Moorish from the Moorish quarter,
she washed it with cold water,
hung it on the rosemary
and I sang to her in bulería
while the handkerchief dried.

Samara
was joy for the Moors
queen of the Moorish quarter.
The whole town adored her
they prayed to her night and day
because Queen Samara,
with her gypsy face,
looked like a virgin.

Oh Samara
queen of the Moorish quarter,
Little Samara yes, Little Samara no,
My Little Samara of my heart.