Crying piano of Genevieve, afflicted piano
that in your keys resume the secrets of life;
crying piano, your kyes are black and white
like my black days, and my white hours;
Genevieve's piano that cry in the late night,
that for many cruel winters haven't been cheerful:
your music is history of poetic misfortunes,
it speaks of witchcraft and real princesses,
of little bridegrooms who trying to steal the nests
in a cloudy afternoon, got lost in the forest;
and it tells us of the charming, lucky girl
who received presents from her eleven godmothers,
who didn't invite the other to her devine wedding
and, for that reason, she suffered the anger of the fairy.
You look to me, oh piano!, with your pitiful voice,
like a box of tears; and your dark wood
evokes the visit of the first coffin
that I received at home in the flower of my youth.
Genevieve's piano, I love you for your indiscretion;
you reveal to the world the secrets of your soul;
you tell, one by one, all your disillusions.
Crying piano, the beautiful most beautiful one in the valley
has turned sad because she is thirty years old
and there isn't, in the whole town, who will prowl her street.
Genevieve, give me your crepuscular love,
those sweet thirty years I can adore.
¡Beg her for me, poor crying piano, that at least,
she'll step on my heart with her little feet.
Ramon Lopez Velarde