Ismael Serrano — Elegía song lyrics and translation
The page contains the lyrics and English translation of the song "Elegía" by Ismael Serrano.
Lyrics
En el barrio guardan luto por tu ausencia
Y maldicen el marrón de tu destino.
Se agotó todo el costo en la plaza vieja
Y las litronas en las tiendas de los chinos.
Brindaron por tu memoria
Los muchachos de La Mina.
En Barna llueve, cantan bulerías para ti.
No eres héroe ni bellaco.
Pero te golpeó la vida
De la periferia gris.
Libre, libre quiero ser,
Quiero ser libre,
Cantan en las galerías de La Modelo.
En el patio te recuerdan, te bendicen.
Con cuarenta tacos nadie fue tan viejo.
Vencido rey del volante,
No reponen ya tus cintas
En la vieja filmoteca.
Vendedores ambulantes
Se toman libre hoy el día.
Triste está hasta la madera.
Hoy en los suburbios celestes
Te invita en el peor antro
A unos vinos el Durruti.
Un Seat 124
Te espera en la salida
Con el motor encendido.
Tocan trompetas divinas
Una canción de los Chichos.
Antes de nacer ya eras carne de trena,
Luego bebiste espejismos por la aguja.
Nunca cupo tanta rabia en una celda
Y la cirrosis te frustró la última fuga.
La justicia es implacable
Con los que no tienen guita
Y sólo queda resistir.
La vida en la periferia,
Cruel, siempre abre una herida,
Tú fuiste su cicatriz.
Lyrics translation
In the neighborhood they mourn for your absence and curse the Brown of your destiny.
Sold out all the cost in the Old Square and litronas in the Chinese shops.
Here's to your memory from the mine boys.
In Barna it's raining, they sing bulerias for you.
You're not a hero or a bellacoose.
But you were struck by the life of the gray periphery.
Free, free I want to be, I want to be free, they sing in the galleries of the Model.
In the yard they remember you, they bless you.
With forty tacos no one was that old.
Vanquished King of the wheel, they don't replace your tapes in the old film library anymore.
Street vendors take time off today.
Sad is to the wood.
Today in the heavenly suburbs invites you to the worst wine cellar El Durruti.
A Seat 124 awaits you at the exit with the engine running.
They play divine trumpets a song of the Chichos.
Before you were born, you were already trena's flesh, then you drank mirages through the needle.
I've never had so much rage in a cell, and cirrhosis thwarted your last escape.
Justice is relentless with those who do not have money and only remains to resist.
Life on the periphery, Cruel, always opens a wound, you were his scar.