Recuerdo

Yesterday poets sang
and orchestras wept
in the soft nights of the atmosphere of pleasure.
Where the bohemian and the fragile youth
imprisoned in a woman's charm
withered in the bar of the southern quarter,
dying of illusion
dying their song.

Woman
of my best poem.
Woman!
I never had a love.
Pardon me!
If you are my ideal glory
Forgive me,
you will be my opening verse.

And the voice in the bar
forever extinguished
its peerless motive
was never heard again.

Intoxicated Mimi,
who came from Paris,
following in your footsteps
the glory left
of those boys
of the old café.

Their name was engraved
by the hand of the past
on the old table of the café in the southern neighborhood,
where just last night a shadow of yesterday,
by the memory of her fragile youth
and through the fault of a woman's forgetfulness
unintentionally fell asleep
at the Café Concert.