The light of the sky of my Andalusia,
is like the reflection of a sharp knife.
And even the guitar sings and vibrates on its own
with the magic charm of some fandango.
Its light, like laughter of a cheerful bell,
is the wonder of its splendor.
It's like a ballad that the air shells
under the gaze of its clear sun.
Andalusian sky, the one of the May Crosses,
the one that has filled my courtyard with merry laughter,
Andalusian sky of incomparable splendor,
under your bright stars there are two ruffian
eyes of a Spanish face.
The fever in the blood, the soul in your eyes,
the moon above you, the wine in the cane.
He, who has not enjoyed the Andalusian night,
shouldn't say he ever lived in Spain.
He shouldn't say he ever heard a ballad,
nor that he knows what love is,
if he has not been drunk of the Andalusian night
looking into the eyes of some woman.
Andalusian sky, the one of the May Crosses,
the one that has filled my courtyard with merry laughter,
Andalusian sky of incomparable splendor,
under your bright stars there are two ruffian
eyes of a Spanish face.