Antonio Vargas Heredia

With a trembling scarlet carnation in his mouth, with a wicker stick in his hand, along a path that reaches the river, went Antonio Vargas Heredia the gypsy. Among the orange trees, the moonlight, placed on his forehead the orange blossom light. And when the day's light appeared, he carried reflections of the green olive grove, of the green olive grove. Antonio Vargas Heredia, flower of the Calé race. The wicker fell from your hand and from your mouth, the carnation, and from your mouth, the carnation. From Puente Genil to Lucena, from Loja to Benamejí. From Puente Genil to Lucena, from Loja to Benamejí. The young girls of Sierra Morena are dying of sorrow crying for you. Antonio Vargas Heredia, they are dying of sorrow crying for you. Antonio Vargas Heredia was the gypsy, the most arrogant and the best planted. And around the Sierra Morena region, there was no one better, more handsome, or honorable. But due to the curse of a gypsy woman, his knife plunged into a man's chest. The cursed jealousy clouded his eyes and imprisoned in the cell, he cried in anger, he cried in anger. Antonio Vargas Heredia, flower of the Calé race. The wicker fell from your hand and from your mouth, the carnation, and from your mouth, the carnation. From Puente Genil to Lucena, from Loja to Benamejí. From Puente Genil to Lucena, from Loja to Benamejí. The young girls of Sierra Morena are dying of sorrow crying for you. Antonio Vargas Heredia, they are dying of sorrow crying for you.