guastavino: The Soul of the Pampas

The rose began to bloom
Embracing the willow tree,
The passionate tree, passionately
It loved the rose so much.

But a little girl, a coquettish girl
But a little girl, a coquettish girl
Has stolen the rose
And the desolate willow tree
Is crying for the rose.
Is crying for the rose.

Pampas grass, little feather duster,

So much mother-of-pearl in the wind! Memories of your greenery

cause me a feeling.

Oh, how much I need you,

Clover field where I used to lived.

Will I ever be able to come back

Pampas grass, little feather duster?

Oh, how much I need you,

 Pampas grass, feather duster.  

I used to live in those fields,

Province of Buenos Aires,

And fanning the air 

During those years I saw you.

Oh, how much I need you, …

The white air carnation 

Is a stopped sigh

That floats in the air

With the finest perfume.

Oh. love! The flower in the girl, 

The girl in the flower...

From the carnation of the white air 

No one offends its whiteness.

Because he has the appearance 

Of the purest innocence..

What sorrow does the garden have That lives so neglected, 

Letting the bushes 

of the violet wood-sorrel grow? 

What dream will regrowth 

Its abandoned neglect, 

which allows the clover 

Of the daring invader to grow? 

Oh, flowers of the violet wood sorrel. from orange to yellow! Oh, purple vinegar. the one in the neglected garden....

-Morning Glory, tell me.

Where are you going, blue and gentle?

-To the railway station.

-Morning Glory, tell me,

Where are you going, 

Along that path?

-To talk to the signalman.

On the olympic mesh 

The Morning Glory is happy,

And on the floor it extends 

With its painted tapestry.

-Morning Glory, tell me,

Where are you going, 

that the day ends?

-To rest my blue forehead.

-Morning Glory, tell me,

Where are you going, 

with a slight trembling?

-I'm going to sleep 

my flower’s dream.

How beautiful is the honeysuckle!

It looks like a kissing lip.

It proclaims, with its sweetness, 

The spring that begins.

Oh, honeysuckle, 

Don't believe the promises of the hummingbird

That I already forgot your loves, 

That stole your sweetness.

How nice, when in the afternoons, 

It spreads so much sweetness!

Aroma of a green hedge

Surrounded by pure honeysuckle....

The flowers of the macachín

Are pink stars,

Five-pointed stars

Resting in the clover.

Clover, macachín clover

The pink of the pure dawn,

And the endless green.

Oh, macchín's clover,

Made of three hearts

I ask you when you bloom

May you rest on my chest.

Achiras so red,

Like flags

Beating with the wind

In the happiest fight.

Red and dark achiras,

From the dew moistened,

Maybe without any perfume,

But so favored.

Oh, soul, who do you sigh for?

Sigh for the achiras,

Velvet achiras

To put in the hair.

Beautiful achira plant

With its beautiful red flowers

And what's going on?

The bud of the leaves.

Achiras, red achiras

From the flooded lands;

Sisters in the gardens

Of the red roses.

Country Jasmine, how lovely

You’re blooming when it rains!

Your white flowers fall

Like little snowflakes.

Your simple flowers have

A touch of rose,

The crimson of the first blush

Of the shy light.

Country Jasmine, little flower

They made you like no other.

Evening star,

Segments of white moon

Country Jasmine, your plant

When it begins to bloom,

It's a sweet and happy smile

Of a mischievous schoolgirl.

And when it goes exploring,

Your vine that peeks out,

Spreads on the sidewalk,

A most delicate aroma.

What does this little tree want?

He doesn't want anything. 

He wants the tusca flower,

All golden.

What's wrong with this little tree?

He has dreams.

He says that his little flowers

They are cottons.

Yellow, yellow,

Look for what you're looking for.

The pompoms have it

From tusca flower.

Pompoms of the tusca,

How beautiful they are!

They light up the morning

Like little suns.

Yes, they are maybe little suns,

It seems so.

Golden the morning,

When it dawns.

The lily flower told

The flower of the aguape:

I have three white petals

And I'm similar to you.

The aguapé flower answers:

I live in the river Paraná,

There, with the camalotes,

Populating loneliness.

When, when will I return

To look at the aguapé?

Nenúfar del Paraná

That on the river flows.

The leaves are hearts

Of very clear green;

The moon gives it whiteness,

The sun gives him his gold.

The afternoon violet paints

Its twilight hue,

There where the water kisses

The dream of his voyages. 

Oh, aljaba, chilco flower,

Vegetable bell;

Maroon inside,

On the outside all coral.

Hanging from the branches

In the garden, it looked,

With its shiny varnishes,

Of upholstery flower.

Oh, aljaba, chilco flower,

The one of the lakes of the south.

Quiet bell

Of mysterious virtue.

Oh, ceibo, what are you oozing

Among the tortuous branches?

Your flowers are so red

In the shape of a butterfly

I tell you that they are your flowers

Are like the burning sun

Kissing passionately

The current of the Paraná.

Ceibo, ceibo, zuiñandí

It's sunset for you, 

You're going to paint the afternoon,

With your blood.

I found this child

on my way to the fields:

I found him asleep

among the ears of corn...

Or perhaps it was

crossing the vineyard:

searching for the vine shoots

I touched his cheek...

And that's why I fear,

when I fall asleep,

he will vanish like

frost on the vines...

Little fleece of my flesh,

that I wove in my womb,

little chilly fleece,

sleep close to me!

The partridge sleeps in the clover

listening to its heartbeat:

don't let my breath disturb you,

sleep close to me!

Little trembling blade of grass

amazed to be alive,

don't let go of my breast:

sleep close to me!

I who have lost everything

now tremble with sleep.

Don't slip from my arm:

sleep close to me!

This child is a delight,

like the gentle breeze:

if I nurse him asleep,

I don't feel him drinking from me.

He is more mischievous than the river

and softer than the hill:

my son is better

than this world he glimpses.

My child is richer, richer

than the earth and the heavens:

on my breast he wears ermine

and in my song, velvet...

And his body is as small

as a grain of my wheat;

he weighs less than his sleep;

he is unseen, yet he is with me.

My little lamb,

silent softness:

my breast is your grotto

of velvety moss.

White flesh,

slice of moon:

I have forgotten everything

to become your cradle.

I forgot the world

and of myself I feel nothing

but the living breast

with which I nourish you,

I know of myself only

that you rest in me.

Your celebration, my child,

extinguished all other celebrations.

This was a rose

that catches the dew:

this was my breast

with my son.

She gathers her petals

to hold him

and dodges the winds

so as not to tear him away.

Because he has descended

from the vast sky,

perhaps her breath is suspended.

She remains silent with joy,

silent:

there is no rose among roses

so wondrous.

This was a rose

that catches the dew:

this was my breast

with my son.

The sea, with its thousands waves,

rocks, divine.

Hearing the loving seas,

I rock my child.

The wandering wind in the night

rocks the wheat.

Hearing the loving winds,

I rock my child.

God, the Father, his thousands worlds

rocks without a sound.

Feeling his hand in the shadows,

I rock my child.

Little village, my village
I miss your afternoons.
My beloved little village
I cannot forget you.

How much strained nostalgia
I have in my soul this afternoon!
Ah! If I could once more
Under your willow trees dream,
Seeing the clouds that pass.

Ah! And when the sun is leaving,
To feel the breeze passing
Fragrant from the orange blossoms.

Little village, my village
I miss your afternoons.
My beloved little village
I cannot forget you.