Betinotti

In the depths of the night
the neighborhood becomes sad
when in the shadow sways
the murmur of a song.
Neighborhood landscape murky
trampled by the trucks
that to the tune of a hundred serenades
perfumed their heart.

Black-winged butterfly
flying in the alley
whispering the drone
next to the peace of the geranium.
And when evoking in the night
voices that time took away,
emerging from oblivion
the mint of the troubadour.

Verse of Betinotti
grumbling on the corners.
Sorrows of the gossiping woman
that will never forget you.
Anxieties of an absent bride
and an abandoned mother
that remained engraved
in your sentimental waltz.

And the night of the neighborhoods
prolonged a love song
encouraging your memory
Betinotti, the Troubadour!