La Ultima Curda - Astor Piazzolla, Salgan, RIVERO

Lástima, bandoneón, mi corazón,

tu ronca maldición maleva

tu lágrima de ron me lleva

hacia el hondo bajofondo

donde el barro se subleva.

Ya sé, no me digás, tenés razón,

la vida es una herida absurda

y es todo, todo tan fugaz

que es una curda, nada más,

mi confesión.

Contáme tu condena, decíme tu fracaso,

no ves la pena que me digo,

y habláme simplemente

de aquel amor ausente

que es un retazo del olvido.

Yo sé que te lastimo, yo sé que te hago daño

contando mi sermón de vino,

pero es el viejo amor que tiembla, bandoneón,

buscando en un licor que aturda

la curda que al final

termina la función

corriéndole un telón

al corazón.

Un poco de recuerdo y sin sabor

gotea su rezongo lerdo,

marea tu licor y arrea la tropilla de la zurda

al volcar la última curda.

Cerráme el ventanal que quema el sol

su lento caracol de sueño

no ves que vengo de un país

que está de olvido, siempre gris,

tras el alcohol.

Pity, bandoneon, my heart,

your hoarse evil curse

your tear of rum takes me

into the deep underworld

where the mud rises.

I know, don't tell me, you're right,

life is an absurd wound

and it's all, all so fleeting

which is a curda, nothing more,

My confession.

Tell me your sentence, tell me your failure,

you do not see the pity that I tell myself,

and just talk to me

of that absent love

which is a piece of oblivion.

I know that I hurt you, I know that I hurt you

recounting my wine sermon,

but it is the old love that trembles, bandoneon,

looking in a liquor that stuns

the curda that in the end

end the function

pulling down a curtain

to the heart.

A bit of memory and no taste

drips his sluggish grumbling,

dizzy your liquor and herd the herd of the lefty

when overturning the last curda.

Close the window that burns the sun

his slow dream snail

Can't you see that I come from a country

that is forgotten, always gray,

after the alcohol.