Courtyard of the dark-haired girl that long ago
held cool shade like the eaves’ gentle glow.
Upon your poor ground of old red bricks,
beside my saddened heart, her gaze sticks,
saying goodbye,
saying goodbye…
With the memory of this tango, I see her again.
With the memory of this playful tango’s refrain
that speaks of her.
Perhaps the patio and the lemon scent that beckoned,
and her hopeful face that glimmered, I reckon.
And in the tear of some
lovely crescent loom,
her dark face’s bloom,
looking at me…
A joyful scene of life
that hurts like a knife.
Poor piece of a dream
that might have no theme.
If hope was shattered to bits,
how cruel her deep eyes’ wits
the more love they tendered,
they disappeared…
Young native girl
from times of old!
Sweet street tango’s whirl
that reproaches, cold,
the absence of the dark-haired girl
and the old courtyard I hold…
Upon your poor ground,
old red bricks found.
Beside my saddened heart,
her gaze’s part,
saying goodbye,
saying goodbye…
