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.

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.

The rose was opening, hugging the willow tree. 

The tree loved it passionately. 

But a coquettish girl stole it from him, and the tree is weeping 

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