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The Donkey of the Savanna

Versions: #1
With my little donkey of the savanna,
I'm going to Bethlehem,
With my little donkey of the savanna,
I'm going to Bethlehem.
 
If they see me, if they see me,
I'm going to Bethlehem,
If they see me, if they see me,
I'm going to Bethlehem.
 
With my little cuatro I go singing,
And my little donkey goes trotting,
With my cautro I go singing,
And my donkey goes trotting.
 
If they see me, if they see me,
I'm going to Bethlehem,
If they see me, if they see me,
I'm going to Bethlehem.
 
The little morning star,
Illuminates my path,
The morning star,
Illuminates my path.
 
If they see me, if they see me,
I'm going to Bethlehem,
If they see me, if they see me,
I'm going to Bethlehem.
 
Tuqui Tuqui Tuquituqui,
Tuquituqui Tu qui Ta,
Hurry up my litttle donkey,
That now we are going to arrive.
 
Tuqui Tuqui Tuquituqui,
Tuquituqui Tu qui Ta,
Hurry up my donkey,
Let's go see Jesus
 

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I say yes, you say no

we can never agree on anything, it's simply like that
and noone wants to give in - if I say yes, you say no
when i want to dance, you don't
If there's a move we could go to - you say yes, I say no
 
Anything that pleases you, just doesn't work for me
If I tell you 'white', then you answer 'blue'
 
we can never agree on anything, it's simply like that
but if you say 'kiss me' - I say yes and you say yes
If its worth argueing about, it makes us love even more
that's how young folks love - a kiss 'yes' - a kiss 'no'
 
Anything that pleases you, just doesn't work for me
If I tell you 'white', then you answer 'blue'
 
we can never agree on anything, it's simply like that
but if you say 'kiss me' - I say yes and you say yes
that's how young folks love - a kiss 'yes' - a kiss 'no'
 
that's how young folks love - a kiss 'yes' - a kiss 'no'
that's how young folks love - a kiss 'yes' - a kiss 'no'
 
Translation Mine if not indicated otherwise. Please feel free to spread it like typhoid but I demand 5000 blessings in return. Booyakacha !!
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Lines

Alcmeón lived in a town.
His parents were dead.
But he had a girlfriend.
Called Noelia.
Not him.
His name was Alcmeón.
Noelia was the name of his girlfriend.
And, in other sense, she was also his girlfriend.
She wasn't beautiful.
She was skillful.
She had been elected as the grape harvest queen.
There wasn't grape harvest in the town.
Neither in the outskirts.
But there was grape harvest queen.
It was a livestock zone.
Cows, bullocks andd heifers.
That didn't allow for queens.
There weren't queens of butchering cows.
They haven't established it.
They didn't want to celebrate the killing.
Of doing it, they would be exposed.
They would find out that they loved to kill.
That's why they took a detour.
They established a grape harvest queen.
Noelia had been elected.
Not for being beautiful.
For being educated.
The contestants not only had to model halfnaked.
Also naked.
No; it's a lie.
They had to recite a poem.
The jury picked the one who recited the best.
If else, they would be exposed.
Their lewdness would be exposed.
To conceal it, they had a trick.
On the jury they added respectable women.
And faked to be interested in poetry.
Noelia recited very well.
Her poem was ugly.
But she could say it.
She pronounced all the Ss.
She left a silence every time an H appeared.
She prepared herself so well.
Many rehearsals before the mirror.
And in front of the former school principal.
The former principal,
Offered herself gently to prepare her.
How nice the former principal!
She had taught her to recite.
She had encouraged her and soaked her of her breath.
She recited to her from close.
She made her live every word.
She was spitting in her face.
Noelia resisted heroically.
She wanted to be a queen.
She wanted subjects.
She wanted the reward.
Poetry was a mean.
Later she'd see if she'd keep reciting.
The principal was insisting her.
It wasn't only for the contest.
Noelia had skills.
She could recite in all the great occasions.
She could praise the national festivities.
After the contest, she had to continue,
Everyday recitation from eight to twelve.
The former principal was retired,
And she had nothing to do.
She could give her classes even on Sundays.
After the church, recitation.
And she didn't charge anything.
Noelia only had to prepare her a cup of tea.
To pour honey to the grappa.
And help her to get dressed.
And doing the shopping.
And feeding the cats.
Noelia tolerated that because she had faith.
In the faith that Mrs principal had on her.
Every day she recited better.
Though she had to reach a higher level.
There was always something to correct.
Some parts of Noelia's face were still intact.
They were without spitting yet.
The former principal was an endless fountain of saliva.
Until one day when she was reciting Ruben Darío,
She puked on her.
On the Triumphal March, when she said 'Panoplies', she spit out
And indeed Noelia didn't swallow that.
And abandoned the former principal.
And went to pick the suit she would use in the contest.
And work out swayings and eyelid battlings.
And in those days she neglected Alcmeón.
Who was her boyfriend.
They were having more than two years dating.
They knew each other from before.
Of spinning in the roundabout.
But they were never running into each other.
They were moving at the same speed.
In the same direction.
They were extremes of a spinning diameter.
But once they stopped him to lit a smoke.
It was windy.
The flame was turning off.
When he finally could lit the lighter,
Noelia was passing by.
And he remained walking by her side.
And they started talking about the wind.
And on the next afternoon they met again and talked about the rain.
Because it was raining.
They had little ability of attraction.
If it was cold, the heat subject wasn't talked about.
And when they talked about love,
It was, because they were already in love.
And they weren't only going to the plaza.
They were going to the movies or dancing.
They were going of course to have an ice cream.
But she wasn't appearing on those days of the crowning.
And when the great day finally came,
And he with candid joy saw from the stands.
That the queen was his girlfriend, he wanted to kiss her.
And he went running to the platform and embraced her.
But Noelia put him aside.
And told him it wasn't the moment.
That she had to have other things.
Awards, contracts, celebrations, several proposals.
And he went back to his room.
To watch television.
But they were broadcasting the queen election.
Damn!
He turned it off and went to a bar.
But they had the TV on.
And they were watching the same.
He went back to his room.
The phone was ringing.
He didn't want to answer.
He though it was for congratulate him for Noelia's triumph.
If it was that he'd hang them up.
He couldn't accept congratulations.
But no.
It was from the capital city.
Attention! Attention!
Alcmeón had won a computer scholarship.
And the scholarship consisted in that he went.
And sell him a computer and give him classes.
And he had to pay the classes and the computer.
Without resisting, Alcmeón left that very night.
At the bar of the station, he ordered a drink.
And they didn't want to charge it.
Maybe for compassion or as a farewell sign.
When he reached, at the bar of the capital station,
He had a surprise.
When he went to the bathroom,
They stole the bag that was on the table.
And Alcmeón asked.
But he couldn't find anybody,
Who believed that there was a bag.
There were other believings in God or several sciences.
But none in the existence of his belongings.
He felt like returning to his town.
But he thought of the scholarship and said to himself
'Dummy, there's good people in the city'.
And when in a hostel they asked him his occupation.
Alcmeón with tenant voice,
Told them 'I'm a grantee'.
 
This is the beginning of a novel called Lines that I'm... that I'm putting music on it little by little. And well, I reached until there but... if I ever finish it, it will last seven hours.
 
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My translations are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. It doesn't apply to the translations with a source.
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The Soul

In a cemetery, shrouded by mist, a shadowy soul wandered,
Along with a storm it howled at the moon, dragging its wings.
And for the spirit to rise above the earth there was no strength,
For a burden within was much too heavy.
 
It had flown away into wild joy and had failed to return,
It was about to grieve when it was buried in the snow,
Oh, the spirit went beyond limits, distending its body...
And, alas, the Russian Man had given it his complete trust.
 
By death crushed, by life beaten,
The herd of horses of our senselessness
Along the precipice flies,
By chance, at random.
 
Likewise, in all of Russia wander unrepentant spirits
The souls of those whose will failed to restrain them,
Those who cared only for themselves, in mirrors having admired their greatness.
 
Indeed, they tried to conquer and break the life-branch.
 
By death crushed, by life beaten,
The herd of horses of our senselessness
Along the precipice flies,
By chance, at random. Yes.
 
So many years, and nothing has changed, we fill unease with unease,
Overseas we search for the sparkle of a copper coin.
Would it not be truly profitable to raise our gaze, if only for one minute
And witness the burning inside of the soul.
 
By death crushed, by life beaten,
The herd of horses of our senselessness
Along the precipice flies,
By chance, at random.
 

The concert

It was a concert of art music
and were being reborn the hidden forces
of the old great masters,
the eternals, the immortals.
 
It was a concert, the finest enjoyment,
it was a contact with something divine.
It was solemn, almost scared,
it was a pleasure of a most high level.
 
Flutes, violins, trumpets, cymbals,
were sounding among necties, rings,
among pockets full of money,
among the keys of some american car.
 
Among necklaces, wigs, pendants,
among fur coats, among gloves;
among lawyers and some notary
and two or three piano teachers.
 
The people heard with lots of excitement:
they were all at the edge of the shock.
Becuase the serious, fine music,
gives goosebumps.
 
It was deep, it was something sublime.
Tell me if isn't true, tell me,
if the director despite being young
wasn't the image of the very Beethoven.
 
It was the Eden for who assisted:
it sounded just like they wanted,
it sounded so arty, so high-leveled,
that it had a sad and fatal outcome.
 
Becuase little by little people were rising
going up by the effect of the art.
They were maybe looking for the level
corresponding to that pure music.
 
And the seats were left empty:
all the people were going up and up,
always higher in the air taken
by that supreme and high-leveled art.
 
While the orchestra was playing,
everybody was crashing their heads
against the ceiling almost at the same time,
all their skulls were left broken.
 
And by force of the headbutts
the theater started to fall apart.
All the orchestra was left buried,
was left covered and mutilated.
 
And the listeners were restlessly
rising, but by another cause:
it wasn't the art that rose them,
it was death who was taking them.
 
Creative Commons License
My translations are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. It doesn't apply to the translations with a source.