De Málaga, Malagueñito
Javier Ruibal
From Malaga, Little Malagan
Oh, Pablo Ruiz, you little rascal!
Heart of clay,
life blows you a kiss,
grace gives you a tip.
This kid, who's a character,
shows good manners,
but when he paints a glass
and the water spills outside.
And without any hesitation
he's painted his grandma
one eye turned inwards
and the other wherever you want.
From Malaga, little Malagan,
you were never poor
nor a little lord.
The divine impertinent
rubs elbows with glory,
with his insolent brush
he's writing history.
From painting to painting, by storm
you jumped like a kid,
cobalt hurricanes
yellow storms.
From here to there,
from madness to the ladies,
which of all your dolls
put color in your bed?
From Malaga, what good luck,
this bullfighter, cousin,
paints death.
When an exquisite perfume
to dollar and turpentine
comes opening doors for you
as you walk.
And the echo of your presence
is fought over by the gentlemen,
you defend your conscience
with tricolor brushstrokes.
Oh, Pablo Ruiz, little boy!
Remember, just in case:
you'll always be little Pablo,
even if they call you Picasso.
From Malaga, oh! Malagan,
you who have it all,
you're not your own.
From Malaga, Malaga,
little Malagan,
you were never poor
nor a little lord.
