Weeping piano of Genevieve, hurting piano
that in your keys, you resume the arcane from life;
Weeping piano, your keys are white and black;
as my black days, as my white hours.
Weeping piano of Genevieve, that cries in the late hours of the night;
that hasn't found happiness many cruel winters since;
Your music tells of poetic evils,
it tells of enchantments and of real princesses,
of the young couple that for stealing nests,
on a cloudy afternoon, got lost in the forest.
And it tells us of the little graceful girl,
who received gifts from her eleven godmothers,
who did not invite the other one to her divine wedding,
and who suffered because of this, the wrath of the fairy.
You seem to me, ¡oh piano!, from your plaintive voice,
a box of tears, and your dark wood
evokes in me the image of the visit to the first coffin
that I received in my home in my youth.
Piano of Genevieve, I love you for indiscreet;
you reveal the secrets of your soul to the entire world;
you recount, one by one, all of your disillusions.
Weeping piano, the most stunning beauty in the valley,
has become dejected because she is now thirty years old
and there isn't one in the whole town who will walk down her street.
Genevieve, give me your crepuscular love
those are sweet thirty years I can adore.
¡Beg to her that at least, weeping piano,
she will step on my heart with her tiny feet!