Siempre se vuelve a Buenos Aires

This city is bewitched, without knowing...
by the captivating spell of returning.
I don't know if for good, I don't know if for bad,
returning has the magic of a ritual.
I am from here, I can't be from another place...
I recognize myself in the habit of returning!
To meet myself again, to value afterwards,
the things I lost... The life that passed away!

I arrived and I'm almost, about to leave...
Feeling that I'm leaving, and I don't want to go.
I turned the corner of myself, to understand,
that no one escapes the fatalism of their own being!
And I'm stepping on the tiles,
roses blooming for my return...!

I don't know if this city exists, if it does...
Or if some poet invented it for me!
It's like a woman, prophetic and fatal
asking for sacrifice until the end!
But it also has another voice, another skin;
and the open gesture of the coffee table...
The feeling in bloom, the fraternal hand
and the face of love at every threshold.

I know it's not by chance, to have been born here
and be a little like this... sad and sentimental.
I know it's not by chance, that a bandoneon for both of us,
sings the funeral to say... Goodbye!
To say goodbye to you... you see, it can't be.
If you are always and always, a reason to return!

You always return to Buenos Aires, to seek
that melancholic way of loving...
Only those who had to live
sick with nostalgia know... Almost dying!...