I love that poem Letty. When writing, I sometimes make the mistake of trying to stretch my poems, this dilutes the message.
Sometimes I read some classical works and it seems like they'd be so much more powerful had they been written for impression of the message, not poetic skill.
I am definitely male Letty, though legally I won't be a man for a year and two months. Trivialities.
I swear the Universe playing a joke on my by making the months until my seventeenth birthday crawl by.
Since you asked, here's one of my all time favorite Spanish songs:
Penelope - Joan Manuel Serrat
Penelope,
Con su bolso de piel marron,
Sus zapatos de tacon
Y su vestido de domingo.
Penelope,
Se sienta en un banco en el anden
Y espera a que llegue el primer tren
Meneando el abanico.
Dicen en el pueblo
Que un caminante paro
Su reloj una tarde de primavera.
Adios, amor mio,
No me llores, volvere
Antes que de los sauces
Caigan las hojas
Piensa en mi, volvere por ti
Pobre infeliz,
Se paro tu reloj infantil
Una tarde plomiza de abril
Cuando se fue tu amante.
Se marchito
En tu huerto hasta la ultima flor,
No hay un sauce en la calle mayor
Para Penelope.
Penelope,
Tristes a fuerza de esperar
Sus ojos parecen brillar
Si un tren silba a lo lejos.
Penelope,
Uno tras otro los ve pasar
Mira sus caras, les oye hablar,
Para ella son muecos.
Dicen en el pueblo
Que el caminante volvio.
La encontro
En su banco de pino verde.
La llamo,
"Penelope, mi amante fiel, mi paz
Deja ya de tejer sueños en tu mente.
Mirame, soy tu amor,
Regrese."
Le sonrio
Con los ojos llenitos de ayer
No era asi su cara ni su piel,
"Tu no eres quien yo espero."
Y se quedo
Con su bolso de piel marron,
Y sus zapatitos de tacon
Sentada en la estacion.
Here's the translation. I took some poetic license when translating so the song wouldn't loose it's tone.
Penelope,
With her small brown leather bag
Her high-heeled shoes,
And her Sunday dress.
Penelope,
She sits in the same bench,
Waiting for the first train,
She holds on to her fan.,
They say around town,
That a traveler stopped her clock,
Her mind stayed there,
in a warm spring afternoon.
Good bye my love,
Please don't cry, I will be back,
Before these willow trees,
Lose their last leaf.
Think of me, I'll come back; for you.
Poor devil,
It stopped, your naïve clock,
On that gray April day,
When your lover left.
Now it has died,
In your garden the last flower,
There are no willows on main street,
To wait with Penelope.
Penelope,
Broken by the years of wait,
Her eyes, they seem to shine,
If a train sounds in the distance.
Penelope,
One by one she sees then walk by
She looks at their faces, she hears them talk,
To her they're only dolls.
And they say around town,
That the traveler came back,
And he found her,
In that same green pine bench.
He called her,
"Penelope, my lover, my peace
Please stop now,
Weaving these dream in your mind."
"Look at me, I'm your love,
I've come back"
She smiled at him,
With those eyes full of yesterday,
These weren't like this, his face nor his hair,
"You're not who I wait for"
And she remained,
With her small brown leather bag,
And her high-heeled shoes,
Waiting at the station.
