One of those never ending stories
commemorated today in my voice
tells how a poor singer
never managed to make history.
He went from town to town randomly
and gave up his life on the stage:
a song is worth tuppence
now it's clappiing for bulería1
The night of the power cut
just three or four medium candles lit the room
between one song and the next
the lowly singer
can hardly see anything.
And right then you came in,
a serene source of light,
immortal sin, everlasting
mute I shall never sing
if it is not for that woman
I am just a sea of silence.
Time passed, cold and rapid,
and he found fortune and class,
a respected and noble great lord
he made himself loved,
he lived in grand style.
Each night he went to a café
to hear the artists
reputed to be a flatterer knave, unfaithful lover, and a good lyricist.
Another stormy night,
just one candle is left standing in The Austrias' café2.
suddenly something happened:
a ballet dancer became silent
as if half hypnotised.
The looked at each other again,
he silent and she immobile.
This time there was no misfortune
More wrinkles and more love
ended up living
together at the end of the party.
At the end of the party
At the end of the party
At the end of the party
1. flamenco dancing song with much clapping2. Las Austrias is a hotel in Madrid