Rocío

With a black hat, with a short jacket,
in the witching hours of the evening
down my street passed a young man
whom unknowingly I fell in love with.
On a clear Sunday that April was smiling
he stopped by my gate, gallant and reed-like
and cheerfully said to me: 'with you, my life
I have a few words to say.'
And we talked about many things
that the wind took away,
only a couplet
remained in my soul.
Dew, oh my Dew!
a little bouquet of carnations,
a blooming bud;
thinking of your desires
I'm going to lose my mind.
Because I love you, my life
like no one has loved you.
Dew, oh my Dew!
The young man left my side,
all he swore to me was a lie
and my eyes cry behind the lattice
for that affection that withered away.
Yesterday afternoon speaking in his ear
I saw him pass with another on his arm;
he turned his face, he wasn't moved,
but I'm sure he saw me cry.
Despite his scorn
I can't forget him,
I remember that couplet
that one day I heard him sing.