Callejera

When in a hurry you pass
who knows where you're going,
making your silhouette
your silhouette as you walk,
you go saying that tapping
that you have as a milonguera:
'Callejera... Street]era...
where are you going to end up?

Those costumes that you wear
don't match your cradle,
poor girl with a long hair
made of silk and calico.
In a fine crystal glass
today you drink rich liquors
and among so many gleams
your suburb was dazzled.

Streetwalker,
that you're blocking from South to North,
giving dyke with the cut
of that empilche that you carry.
Callejera,
you are also Milonguita
and in the depths of your soul
you bury a sorrow.

Your grace triumphs, I know,
and in the nightly rounds
you are of the furniture diqueros
the one who gives more glitter.
You squander temptation,
but also, streetwise,
when you'll be old and shabby
your heart will be dead.

Just go on, slide
your years through life,
fascinated and engrupida
by the lights of the Pigall,
that when the winter of your life
the winter of your life
you will notice with regret
that you have lived a carnival.