Discepolín

On the icy marble, croissant crumbs
and an absurd woman eating in a corner...
Your muse is bleeding and she's having breakfast...
dawn doesn't forgive nor has a heart.

In the end, who is guilty of the grotesque life
and the soul stained with carmine blood?
It's better that we leave before dawn,
before we cry, old Discepolín!...

I know of your long boredom
and I understand how hard it is to be happy,
and to the tune of each tango I sense you
with your enormous talent and your nose;
with your bitter and hidden tear,
with your pale clown mask,
and with that saddened smile
that blossoms in verse and in song.

People gather around you with their heap of sorrows
and you caress them almost trembling...
It hurts you as if it were your own scar:
that one had no luck and this one had no love.
The dance floor has filled up with the orchestra's noise
rag dolls embrace under the spotlight...
Don't you see they're dancing?
Don't you see they're celebrating?
Come on, everything hurts, old Discepolín...