Son Los Artistas Equilibristas - Victor Heredia

Son como niños, buscando abrigo,

pájaros tristes, soñando amigos.

Entre el delirio y la cordura,

juegan sus sueños de locura.

Sin los artistas, equilibristas,

en el andamio de sus engaños.

Vienen y van sin descansar,

magos del aire, bufones, frailes

de un Dios de cristales de color.

De la risa al dolor y del llanto al amor,

del drama a la comedia, hay de todo en la feria

cuando levanta un hombre su telón.

Viven al día, sufren y esperan,

son importantes, son emigrantes.

Fundan tablados, son adorados,

son bien amados, son insultados.

Son buena gente entre la gente.

Pasan a solas sus malas horas.

Aplausos y fracasos, ahí están los artistas,

poniéndole a la vida el corazón.

They are like children, looking for shelter,

sad birds, dreaming friends.

Between delirium and sanity,

they play their crazy dreams.

Without the artists, tightrope walkers,

on the scaffolding of their deceptions.

They come and go without rest,

air mages, jesters, friars

of a God of colored crystals.

From laughter to pain and from tears to love,

from drama to comedy, there is everything at the fair

when a man lifts his curtain from him.

They live for the day, suffer and wait,

they are important, they are emigrants.

They found tablados, they are adored,

they are well loved, they are insulted.

They are good people among people.

They spend their bad hours alone.

Applause and failures, there are the artists,

putting your heart to life.