El candombe del olvido [English translation]

Where are those shoes

I had and walked with them?

Where are my knife and my sling?

I want the boy I was to answer.

The candombe of oblivion

maybe if I ask a memory to it,

it gives me back what was lost.

The candombe of oblivion

maybe if I ask a memory to it,

it gives me back what was lost.

I can't remember the house garden

nobody waits for me at the plaza.

Soft candombes, silences and names

of others; faces change.

The candombe of oblivion

divided heart in candombes,

doesn't remember to be born.

The candombe of oblivion

maybe if I ask a memory to it,

it gives me back what was lost.

Who'll give me again my innocent voice,

my face with glasses.

How can I pick the spoken words,

their frozen souls.

The candombe of memory

puts a stupid rythm to the fate,

and makes it a way.

The candombe of oblivion

maybe if I ask a memory to it,

it gives me back what was lost.

So hard times, the angel is dead,

the boats left the harbor.

Time to love, to doubt, to think and fight,

to live without past.

But the candombe doesn't forget,

and borns again in each wound

of drum stick with life and soul.

The candombe of oblivion

maybe if I ask a memory to it,

it gives me back what was lost.

Time in abundance, a zenithal light

falls heavily in the Momo's party,

Torrent time flowing;

from Isla de Flores1 come the drums.

Green fire, flash,

from your hoarse drums

of the south, rooftops embroidered in silk.

Green fire, flash,

from your hoarse drums

of the south, rooftops embroidered in silk.

It rolls and rolls to the infinite,

the candombe isn't a yell,

it is sung and not danced, lailaraila...

It is sung and not danced,

the candombe is a plant that grows

and even the sky trembles.

It only sings because it can

and forgets what it wants,

the copla doesn't kill it nor hurts it.

Blue flower in a can,

silver lightning,

life doesn't hurt it nor kills it.

It loves again and doesn't get tired,

life is not enough for it,

death is a naive riddle.

Green fire, flash,

from your hoarse drums

of the south, rooftops embroidered in silk.

1. A street in Montevideo where the Llamadas Parade begins