Home
Home

Welcome to

Nobby's Artists Page

Joán Manuel Serrat



artists
Artists

Joán Manuel Serrat was born 27 December, 1943 in Barcelona. (Joán is the Catalan version of Juan or John). He completed all his studies there and in his late teens studied agronomy.
His father gave him a guitar at age 17 and he formed a musical group with three of his friends. He also did military training at this time and developed a love of poetry.
In 1964 he got a spot on local radio which was giving air time to local musicians. He proved a success and the next year recorded his first disk (EP) - in Catalan.

para ver en español




In 1966 he finished his agronomy studies and released his second EP. He decided to go full-time in music. Several other singles followed and in 1968 he released his first Spanish single. There was much argument about the question of language (Spanish or Catalan) between Serrat and the Catalans vs the national radio and TV. But Serrat became popular anyway and made his first tour of South America in 1969.
Apart from his many EP's and singles, he has now released over 35 albums.

 

Anduriña

En Galicia un día yo escuché,
una vieja historia en un café.
Era de una niña
que del pueblo se escapó.
Anduriña joven que voló.

Lloran al pensar donde estará.
Mas nadie la quiere ir a buscar.
Anduriña la llamaron,
los que allí dejó.
Torna pronto a puerto, por favor.

Un abuelo está junto al hogar.
Habla y me sonríe con maldad.
Anduriña es joven,
volverá ya lo verás,
es un pajarillo, sin plumas.

En un día gris, se posará.
Su misterio ya no lo será.
El nombre Anduriña,
ya jamás se lo dirán.
Pero, mientras tanto, ¿dónde está?
Anduriña dónde está?
Anduriña dónde está?



Anduras Girl

In Galicia one day I heard,
an old story in a cafe.
It was of a girl
who ran away from the town.
Young Anduriña that flew.

They cry when thinking where she might be.
But nobody wants to go to look for her.
Anduriña they called her,
those that she left there.
return soon to port, please.

An old man was there next to his home.
He speaks and smiles at me evilly.
Anduriña is young,
she will return you’ll see,
she is little bird, without feathers.

On a gray day, she will settle.
It will no longer be a mystery.
then they will never say
the name Anduriña again
But meanwhile, where is she?
Anduriña where are you?
Anduriña where are you?

Cada Loco Con Su Tema

Cada loco con su tema
contra gustos no hay disputas
artefactos, bestias, hombres y mujeres
cada uno es como es
cada quien es cada cuál
y baja las escaleras como quiere

Pero, puestos a escoger, soy partidario
de las voces de la calle
más que del diccionario,
me privan más los barrios
que el centro de la ciudad
y los artesanos más que la factoría
la razón que la fuerza,
el instinto que la urbanidad
y un siuox más que el séptimo de caballería.

Prefiero los caminos a las fronteras
y una mariposa al Rockefeller Center
y el alfarero de capdepera
al vigía de occidente.

Prefiero querer a poder,
palpar a pisar,
ganar a perder
besar a reñir,
bailar a desfilar
y disfrutar medir.
Prefiero volar a correr,
hacer a pensar,
amar a querer,
tomar a pedir.
Antes que nada soy
partidario de vivir.

cada loco con su tema,
contra gustos no hay disputas;
artefactos, bestias, hombres y mujeres,
cada uno es como es,
cada quien es cada cuál
y baja las escaleras como quiere.

Pero, puestos a escoger, prefiero
un buen polvo a un rapapolvo
y un bombero a un bombardero,
crecer a sentar cabeza, prefiero
la carne al metal
y las ventanas a las ventanillas
el lunar de tu cara
a la Pinacoteca Nacional
y la revolución a las pesadillas.

Prefiero el tiempo al oro,
la vida al sueño,
el perro al collar,
las nueces al ruido
y al sabio por conocer
que a los locos conocidos.

Prefiero querer a poder,
palpar a pisar,
ganar a perder,
besar a reñir,
bailar a desfilar
y disfrutar medir.
Prefiero volar a correr,
hacer a pensar,
amar a querer,
tomar a pedir.
Antes que nada soy
partidario de vivir...

 

Everyone's Mad In His Own Way
(dictionary translation is as shown in the first line)

Everyone’s got his own axe to grind
There’s no accounting for tastes
devices, beasts, men and women
Each one is what it is
Each to his own
and each goes down the stairs how he wants

But, pushed to choose, I am in favor
of the voices of the street
more than of the dictionary,
the suburbs prevail more for me
than the city centre (downtown)
and craftsmen more than the factory
reason more than force,
instinct more than politeness
and a Sioux more than the Seventh Cavalry.

I prefer roads to borders
and a butterfly to the Rockefeller Center
and the Capdepera potter
to the watchman of the West.

I prefer love to power,
touching to trampling,
winning to losing
kissing to fighting,
dancing to marches
and enjoying rather than measuring.
I prefer flying to running,
doing to thinking,
loving to wanting,
taking to requesting.
More than anything I am
a supporter of living.

Everyone’s got his own axe to grind
There’s no accounting for tastes
devices, beasts, men and women
Each one is what it is
Each to his own
and each goes down the stairs how he wants

But, pushed to choose, I prefer
a good dust to a ticking-off
and a fireman to a bomber,
growing to settling down, I prefer
meat to metal
and big windows to small windows
the mole on your face
to the National Pinacoteca
and revolution to nightmares.

I prefer time more than gold,
life more than the dream,
the dog more than the collar,
nuts more than noise
and the one who is wise through knowing
more than the well-known crazy people.

I prefer love to power,
touching to trampling,
winning to losing
kissing to fighting,
dancing to marches
and enjoying rather than measuring.
I prefer flying to running,
doing to thinking,
loving to wanting,
taking to requesting.
More than anything I am
a supporter of living.


Cada Qual Com Su Mania
Portuguese

Cada qual com sua mania
o gosto não se discute.
Artefatos, bestas, homens e mulheres
cada um é como é
cada um é cada qual
e se manda pela escada como quer.

Mas se tiver que escolher, sou partidário
das vozes vivas da rua
mais que do dicionário.
E gosto mais do bairros
que do centro da cidade
e dos artesãos mais que da feitoria.
Da razão que da força,
do instinto que da urbanidade
e dos indios que do Sétimo de cavalaria.
Prefiro os caminhos às fronteiras
e uma borboleta ao Rockefeller Center
e o faroleiro de Capdepera
aos vigias de Ocidente.

Prefiro querer a poder.
Tatear a pisar.
Amar a querer.
Pegar a pedir.
Dançar a desfilar
e desfrutar a medir.
Prefiro voar a correr.
Fazer a pensar.
Beijar a brigar.
Ganhar a perder.
Mais do que tudo, sou
partidário de viver.

Cada qual com sua mania
o gosto não se discute.
Artefatos, bestas, homens e mulheres
cada um é como é
cada um é cada qual
e se manda pela escada como quer.

Mas se tiver que escolher, prefiro
um bombeiro a um bombardeiro
e um suspiro a um vampiro.
Crescer a sossegar,
prefiro a carne ao metal
e tua casinha a um castelo.
A pinta de tua cara à pinacoteca nacional
e a revolução aos pesadelos.
Prefiro o tempo ao ouro,
a vida ao sonho,
o cão a coleira,
as nozes ao ruido
e o sabio por conhecer
aos malucos conhecidos.

Prefiro querer a poder.
Tatear a pisar.
Amar a querer.
Pegar a pedir.
Dançar a desfilar
e desfrutar a medir.
Prefiro voar a correr.
Fazer a pensar.
Beijar a brigar.
Ganhar a perder.
Mais do que tudo, sou
partidário de viver.


Everyone's Mad In His Own Way


Each one with his own madness
one doesn't argue about tastes.
Devices, mules, men and women
each one is as it is
each one is each one
and each takes the stairs as he wants.

But if I had to choose, I am a supporter
of the living voices of the street
more than of the dictionary.
and more the taste of the quarters
than downtown
and of the craftsmen more than of the factory.
Of reason than of force,
of instinct than of urbanity
and of the Indians tha of the Seventh Cavalry.
I prefer the roads to the borders
and a butterfly to the Rockefeller Center
e the potter of Capdepera
to the guards of the west..

I prefer love to power.
Touching to stepping on.
loving to wanting.
catching to asking for.
dancing to a parade
enjoying to measuring.
I prefer to fly than to run.
To do than to think.
To kiss than to fight.
To earn than to lose.
More than everything, I am
a supporter of living.

Each one with his own madness
one doesn't argue about tastes.
Devices, mules, men and women
each one is as it is
each one is each one
and each takes the stairs as he wants.

But if I had to choose, I prefer
a fireman to a bomber
and a sigh to a vampire.
To grow than to rot,
I prefer meat over metal
and your little house more than a castle.
The blot on your face to the national pinacoteca
and a revolution to nightmares.
I prefer time over gold,
life over the dream,
the dog over the collar,
nuts over noise
and the wise person for knowing
more than the well-known crazies.

I prefer love to power.
Touching to stepping on.
loving to wanting.
catching to asking for.
dancing to a parade
enjoying to measuring.
I prefer to fly than to run.
To do than to think.
To kiss than to fight.
To earn than to lose.
More than everything, I am
a supporter of living.

Caminante, No Hay Camino

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el mar.
..
Nunca perseguí la gloria,
ni dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo los mundos sutiles,
ingrávidos y gentiles,
como pompas de jabón.

Me gusta verlos pintarse
de sol y grana, volar
bajo el cielo azul,
temblar súbitamente y quebrarse...
Nunca perseguí la gloria.

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda
que nunca se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar...

Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques
se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar

"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar"
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...

Murió el poeta lejos del hogar.
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.
Al alejarse le vieron llorar.

"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.."
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...

Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar.
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.

"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar"
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso

Traveller, There is No Path

Everything passes and everything remains,
But ours is to pass,
to pass making paths
Pathways on the sea.

I never sought glory
nor to leave my song
in men’s memories.
I love the subtle worlds
Weightless and gentle,
like soap bubbles

I love to see them painted
with the sun and scarlet,
flying under a blue sky
trembling subtly and bursting.
I never sought glory

Traveller, your footprints
and nothing more are the path.
Traveller, there is no path,
the path is made while walking.

While walking the path is made,
and on looking back
you see the track
you never have to tread again.

Traveller, there is no path,
only the wake in the water.

Some time ago in that place
where today hawthorn
woods are seen,
the voice of a poet was heard shouting

"Traveller, there is no path,
the path is made while walking."
Blow by blow, line by line. . .

The poet died far from home.
The dust of a neighbouring country covers him.
As he departed they saw him cry.

"Traveller, there is no path,
the path is made while walking."
Blow by blow, line by line...

When the goldfinch cannot sing,
When the poet is a wanderer,
When praying does nothing to help us

"Traveller, there is no path,
the path is made while walking."
Blow by blow, line by line. .

De Alguna Manera
con Luis Eduardo Aute

De alguna manera
tendré que olvidarte,
por mucho que quiera
no es fácil, ya sabes,
me faltan las fuerzas,
ha sido muy tarde,
y nada más, y nada más,
apenas nada más.

Las noches te acercan
y enredas el aire,
mis labios se secan
e intento besarte,
qué fría es la cera
de un beso de nadie
y nada más, y nada más,
apenas nada más.

Las horas de piedra
parecen cansarse
y el tiempo se peina
con gesto de amante,
de alguna manera
tendré que olvidarte
y nada más, y nada más,
apenas nada más.


Somehow


Somehow
I will have to forget you.
As much as I want to,
it is not easy, you know,
I lack the strength,
it has been very late
and nothing more, nothing more,
just nothing more

The nights bring you near
you muddle the air,
My lips get dry
and I try to kiss you,
How cold is the lipstick (??)
of a kiss from nobody
and nothing more, nothing more
just nothing more

The frozen hours
seem to grow tired
And time combs its hair
with gestures of a lover,
Somehow
I will have to forget you.
and nothing more, nothing more,
just nothing more

 

La Saeta

Dijo una voz popular:
¿Quién me presta una escalera
para subir al madero
para quitarle los clavos
a Jesús el Nazareno?

Oh, la saeta, el cantar
al Cristo de los gitanos
siempre con sangre en las manos,
siempre por desenclavar.

Cantar del pueblo andaluz
que todas las primaveras
anda pidiendo escaleras
para subir a la cruz.

Cantar de la tierra mía
que echa flores
al Jesús de la agonía
y es la fe de mis mayores.

¡Oh, no eres tú mi cantar
no puedo cantar, ni quiero
a este Jesús del madero
sino al que anduvo en la mar!




The Sacred Song

A popular voice said
Who’ll lend me a ladder
to climb up the pole
in order to remove the nails
from Jesus of Nazereth

Oh, the sacred song, the singing
to Jesus of the gypsies
always with blood on their hands
always through removing the nails.

To sing of the Andaluz town
which every spring
goes asking for ladders
to climb up to the cross

To sing of the land of mine
that throws flowers
to Jesus in agony
And it’s the faith of my elders

Oh, you are not my singing
I’m not able to sing, nor do I want to
to this Jesus on the pole
rather to he who walked on the water.


 

Lucía

Vuela esta canción
para ti, Lucía
la más bella historia de amor
que tuve y tendré
es una carta de amor
que se lleva el viento
pintado en mi voz
a ninguna parte
a ningún buzón

No hay nada más bello
que lo que nunca he tenido
nada más amado
que lo que perdí
perdóname si
hoy busco en la arena
esa luna llena
que arañaba el mar

Si alguna vez fui un ave de paso
lo olvidé para anidar allí en tus brazos
si alguna vez fui bello y fui bueno
fue enredado en tu cuello y en tus senos
si alguna vez fui sabio en amores
lo aprendí de tus labios cantores
si alguna vez amé
si algún día
después de amar amé
fue por tu amor, Lucía, Lucía

Tus recuerdos son
cada día más dulces
el olvido sólo se llevó la mitad
y tu sombra aún
se acuesta en mi cama
con la oscuridad
entre mi almohada
y mi soledad

No hay nada más bello
que lo que nunca he tenido
nada más amado
que lo que perdí
perdóname si
hoy busco en la arena
esa luna llena
que arañaba el mar

Si alguna vez amé
si algún día
después de amar amé
fue por tu amor, Lucía, Lucía



Lucía

This song flies
for you, Lucia
The most beautiful story of love
that I had and will have
It’s a love letter
that the wind brings
Painted in my voice
Going nowhere
to no letterbox

There is nothing more beautiful
Than that which I never had
nothing more loved
than that which I lost
Pardon me if
today I search in the sand
for that full moon
that scratched the sea

If sometime I was a bird of passage
I forgot it so as to nest there in your arms
if sometime I was beautiful and I was good
I was entwined with your neck and your breasts
If sometime I was wise in love
I learnt it from your singing lips
If some time I loved
if some day
After loving, I loved
It was by your love, Lucia, Lucia

Your memories are
sweeter every day
the forgetting only took away half
and your shadow still
lies down in my bed
with the dark
between my pillow
and my loneliness

There is nothing more beautiful
Than that which I never have had
nothing more loved
than that which I lost
Pardon me if
today I search in the sand
for that full moon
that scratched the sea

If some time I loved
if some day
After loving, I loved
It was through your love, Lucia, Lucia

 

Mediterráneo
con Ana Belen

Quizá porque mi niñez
sigue jugando en tu playa
y escondido tras las cañas
duerme mi primer amor,
llevo tu luz y tu olor
por dondequiera que vaya,
y amontonado en la arena
guardo amor, juegos y penas.
yo que en la piel tengo
el sabor amargo del llanto eterno
que han vertido en ti
cien pueblos de Algeciras a Estambul
para que pintes de azul
sus largas noches de invierno.

A fuerza de desventuras,
tu alma es profunda y oscura.
A tus atardeceres rojos
se acostumbraron mis ojos
como el recodo al camino...
Soy cantor, soy embustero,
me gusta el juego y el vino,
Tengo alma de marinero...
Qué le voy a hacer,
si yo nací en el Mediterráneo.
nací en el Mediterráneo.

Y te acercas, y te vas
después de besar a mi aldea.
Jugando con la marea te vas,
pensando en volver.
Eres como una mujer
perfumadita de brea
que se añora y se quiere
que se conoce y se teme.

Ay, si un día para mi mal
viene a buscarme la parca.
Empujad al mar mi barca
con un levante otoñal
y dejad que el temporal
desguace sus alas blancas.
Y a mi enterradme sin duelo
entre la playa y el cielo...
En la ladera de un monte,
más alto que el horizonte.
Quiero tener buena vista.
Mi cuerpo será camino,
le daré verde a los pinos
y amarillo a la genista...
Y cerca del mar.
Porque yo nací en el Mediterráneo.
nací en el Mediterráneo.
nací en el Mediterráneo.

 

Mediterranean

Perhaps because my childhood
continues playing on your beach
And hidden behind the reeds
my first love sleeps
I carry your light and your smell
for wherever I want to go,
And collected in your sand
I keep love, games, and regrets
I, who has on my skin
the bitter taste of never-ending weeping
that 100 towns from Algiers to Istanbul
have emptied in you
for you to paint in blue
your long nights in winter

By force of misfortune,
your soul is deep and dark
My eyes got used
to your red evenings
Like the bend in the road...
I am a singer, I am a storyteller
I like the game and the wine.
I have the soul of a sailor
What do I do about it
if I was born in the Mediterranean
I was born in the Mediterranean

And you come near, and then you go
after kissing my village
playing with the tide you go,
thinking about returning
You are like a woman
scented with tar
Who one longs for and one loves
that one knows and one fears

Ay, if one evil day for me,
the frugal one comes to look for me.
push my boat to sea
with an autumnal east wind
And let the storm
strip bare its white wings.
And bury me without mourning
between the beach and the sky
On the slope of a mountain
higher than the horizon
I want to have a beautiful view.
My body will be the path
I will give green to the pines
and yellow to the broom tree
and close to the sea.
Because I was born in the Mediterranean
I was born in the Mediterranean
I was born in the Mediterranean

 

Nanas de La Cebolla

La cebolla es escarcha cerrada y pobre.
Escarcha de tus días y de mis noches.
Hambre y cebolla, hielo negro y escarcha
grande y redonda.

En la cuna del hambre mi niño estaba.
Con sangre de cebolla se amamantaba.
Pero tu sangre, escarchada de azúcar
cebolla y hambre.

Una mujer morena resuelta en luna
se derrama hilo a hilo sobre la cuna.
Ríete niño que te traigo la luna
cuando es preciso.

Tu risa me hace libre, me pone alas.
Soledades me quita, cárcel me arranca.
Boca que vuela,
corazón que en tus labios relampaguea.

Es tu risa la espada más victoriosa,
vencedor de las flores y las alondras.
Rival del sol. Porvenir de mis huesos
y de mi amor.

Desperté de ser niño: nunca despiertes.
Triste llevo la boca: ríete siempre.
Siempre en la cuna defendiendo la risa
pluma por pluma.

Al octavo mes ríes con cinco azahares.
Con cinco diminutas ferocidades.
Con cinco dientes
como cinco jazmines adolescentes.

Frontera de los besos serán mañana,
cuando en la dentadura sientas un arma.
Sientas un fuego correr dientes abajo
buscando el centro.

Vuela niño en la doble luna del pecho;
él, triste de cebolla, tú satisfecho.
No te derrumbes. No sepas lo que pasa
ni lo que ocurre


Le debo las gracias a Álvaro de Coruña en España por informarme que esta canción fue poema escrita en 1939 por Miguel Hernández quien era en oposición a Franco. Lo detuvieron y lo echaron a varias cárceles. Mientras que estaba allí recibió una carta de su esposa en la que decía que ella y el bebé tenían de comer sólo pan y cebollas. Entonces él escribió esta poema para ella y su bebé.

Onion Lullaby
(a poem by Miguel Hernández - see comment below)

The onion is frosty, closed and poor
Iced over with your days and my nights
Hunger and onion, black ice and frost
big and round.

My son was in the cradle of hunger.
With the blood of the onion he was suckled.
But your blood, frosted with sugar,
onion and hunger.

A dark-haired woman transformed into the moon
Pours herself out thread upon thread over the cradle.
Laugh little one, that I bring you the moon
when you need it.

Your laugh frees me and gives me wings.
It takes away my loneliness, removes my prison
Mouth that flies,
heart that flashes lightning in your lips.

Your laugh is the most victorious sword
Conqueror of flowers and the larks.
Rival of the sun. Future of my bones
and of my love.

I awoke from childhood; don’t you ever wake.
I wear a sad mouth; you, laugh always.
Always in the cradle defending the laugh
feather by feather.

By the 8th month you laugh with five orange blossoms;
with five tiny fiercenesses.
With five teeth
like five jasmine blossoms.

Tomorrow they will be the border for kisses
When in your set of teeth you feel a weapon.
You feel a fire running, below your teeth
looking for the centre.

Fly little one on the double moon of the breast;
It, sad with onion, you satisfied.
Don’t give in. Don't get to know what's going on
or what is happening.

This is a strange topic for a lullaby. It is strongly metaphorical, so we have to stretch our imaginations to see what the author is trying to express. He came from a poor family and was an enemy of Franco who had him jailed. Whilst there his wife wrote to say she and her son had only bread and onions to eat. This poem is his response.
‘Escarcha’ is hoar-frost (or the ice on a puddle). The onion symbolises their family poverty.
The poet envisions his son breastfeeding on his mother's onion blood ( sangre de cebolla), and uses the child's laughter as a counterpoint to the mother's desperation. The poet turns his wife's body into a symbol of desperation and hope

Palabras de Amor
con Amaya Uranga

ella: El me quiso tanto...Yo sigo enamorada
Juntos atravesamos una puerta cerrada
El, como os diría, era toda mi ocupación,
Cuando en la lumbre ardían
Solo palabras de amor...

Palabras de amor sencillas y tiernas.
Echamos al vuelo por primera vez.
Apenas tuvimos tiempo de aprenderlas
Recién despertábamos de la niñez

Nos bastaban esas tres frases hechas
que entonaba un trasnochado galán
Historias de amor, sueños de poetas,
A los quince años no se sabe mas.

él: Ella donde andará talvez aún me recuerda.
Un día se marchó y jamás volví a verla.
Pero cuando oscurece,
lejos se escucha una canción.
Vieja música, que acuna,
Viejas palabras de amor.

Palabras de amor sencillas y tiernas.
Echamos al vuelo por primera vez.
Apenas tuvimos tiempo de aprenderlas
Recién despertábamos de la niñez

Nos bastaban estas tres frases hechas
que entonaba un trasnochado galán
Historias de amor, sueños de poetas,
A los quince años no se sabe mas.
A los quince años no se sabe mas.

Words of Love


(she): He loved me so much. . . I’m still in love
Together we went through a locked door
And, as they would tell you , he was my sole concern.
When in the fire were burning
Just words of love

Words of love, simple and tender
We threw forth for the first time;
We hardly had time to learn them
We were newly awakened from childhood.

Sufficient for us were those three phrases
That a run-down ladies man intoned
Love stories, poetic dreams
At fifteen one doesn’t know anything else.

(he): She, wherever she goes, perhaps she still remembers me.
One day she left and I never saw her again.
But when it gets dark
Far off can be heard a song
Old music that soothes,
Old words of love.

Words of love, simple and tender
We threw forth for the first time;
We hardly had time to learn them
We were newly awakened from childhood.

Sufficient for us were those three phrases
That a run-down ladies man intoned -
Love stories, poetic dreams
At fifteen one doesn’t know anything else.
At fifteen one doesn’t know anything else.

 

Papel Mojado

Con ríos
con sangre
con lluvia
o rocío
con semen
con vino
con nieve
con llanto
los poemas suelen
ser papel mojado


Wet Paper

With laughs
with blood
with rain
or dew
with semen
with wine
with snow
with tears
The poems are accustomed
to being wet paper

Poco Antes De Que Den Las Diez


Te levantarás despacio,
poco antes de que den las diez,
y te alisarás el pelo
que con mis dedos deshilé,
y te abrocharás la falda,
y acariciarás mi espalda
con un: "hasta mañana".

Y te irás sin un reproche,
te perderé con la noche
que llama a mi ventana,
y bajarás los peldaños
de dos en dos, de tres en tres,
Ellos te quieren en casa...
poco antes de que den las diez

¡Vete! Se hace tarde, vete ya...
...Y en el umbral de mi puerta...
poco antes de que den las diez
...borrarás la última huella
que en tu cara olvidé.

Y volverás la cabeza
y me dirás con tristeza:
"adiós" desde la esquina,
y luego te irás corriendo,
la noche te irá envolviendo
en su oscura neblina.

Tu madre abrirá la puerta,
sonreirá y os besaréis.
La niña duerme en casa
y en el reloj darán las diez...



A Bit Before It Strikes Ten


You will get up slowly,
just before it strikes ten,
And you will smooth your hair
that my fingers messed up
And you will button your skirt,
and caress my shoulders
with a “see you tomorrow”,

And you will go without reproach,
I will lose you with the night
that calls at my window,
And you will race down the stairs
two at a time, three at a time
they want you at home...
just before it strikes ten

Go! It’s late, go now. . .
And on the threshold of my door. .
just before it strikes ten.
You will wipe from your face
the last trace that I forgot.

And you will turn your head
and tell me sadly
“Bye” from the corner,
and then go running,
The night will continue wrapping
you in its dark mist.

Your mother will open the door,
she will smile and you will kiss one another.
The girl sleeps at home
and the clock will strike ten.

Poema de Amor

El sol nos olvidó ayer sobre la arena
nos envolvió el rumor suave del mar
tu cuerpo me dio calor tenía frío
y allí en la arena entre los dos nació este poema
este pobre poema de amor para ti.

Mi fruto, mi flor, mi historia de amor
mis caricias, mi humilde candil
mi lluvia de abril, mi avaricia.

Mi trozo de pan mi viejo refrán
mi poeta. La fe que perdí
mi camino y mi carreta.

Mi dulce placer mi sueño de ayer,
mi equipaje.
Mi tibio rincón mi mejor canción,
mi paisaje.

Mi manantial, mi cañaveral, mi riqueza.
Mi leña, mi hogar, mi techo,
mi lar, mi nobleza.

Mi fuente, mi sed,
mi barco, mi red
y la arena.
Donde te sentí
donde te escribí mi poema.

 

Love Poem

The sun forgot us yesterday on the sand
The soft murmur of the sea enveloped us
Your body made me hot, I was cold
And there on the sand between we two this poem was born, this poor love poem for you.

My fruit, my flower, my love story
My caresses, my humble oil lamp
My April rain, my greed.

My piece of bread, my old refrain
My poet. The faith that I lost
My path and my wagon.

My sweet pleasure, my yesterday dream,
My luggage.
My lukewarm nook, my best song,
My countryside.

My spring, my plantation, My wealth.
My firewood, my home, my roof,
my hearth, My nobility.

My fountain, my thirst,
my boat, my network,
and the sand
Where I felt for you,
where I wrote you my poem


Yo Pisaré Las Calles Nuevamente


Yo pisaré las calles nuevamente
de lo que fue Santiago ensangrentada
y en una hermosa plaza liberada
me detendré a llorar por los ausentes.

Yo vendré del desierto calcinante
y saldré de los bosques y los lagos
y evocaré en un cerro de Santiago
a mis hermanos que murieron antes.

Yo unido al que hizo mucho y poco
al que quiere la patria liberada
dispararé de las primeras balas
más temprano que tarde sin reposo

retornarán los libros las canciones
que quemaron las manos asesinas
renacerá mi pueblo de su ruina
y pagarán su culpa los traidores.

Un niño jugará en una alameda
y cantará con sus amigos nuevos
y ese canto será el canto del suelo
a una vida segada en La Moneda.

Yo pisaré las calles nuevamente
de lo que fue Santiago ensangrentada
y en una hermosa plaza liberada
me detendré a llorar por los ausentes.



I Will Walk The Streets Again


I will walk the streets again
of what was blood-stained Santiago
and in a beautiful liberated square
I will stop to cry for the absent ones.

I will come from the burnt desert
and I will leave the forests and the lakes
and on a hill in Santiago I will recall
my brothers who died before.

I together with those who did a lot or a little
with those who love the liberated fatherland
I will fire the first bullets
earlier rather than later without rest

the books and songs will return
that were burned by the assassins’ hands
my town will be reborn from its ruins
and the traitors will pay for their crimes.

A child will play in a tree-lined avenue
and he will sing with his new friends
and that song will be the song of the soil
to a life harvested in The Currency.

I will walk the streets again
of what was blood-stained Santiago
and in a beautiful liberated square
I will stop to cry for the absent ones.

Zamba del Grillo

De los cerros tucumanos
me llevaron los caminos
y me trajeron de vuelta sentires
que nunca se harán olvido
y me trajeron de vuelta sentires
que nunca se harán olvido.

Un grillo feliz llenaba
su canto de azul y enero
y al regresar a los llanos
yo le iba diciendo mi adiós al cerro
y al regresar a los llanos
yo le iba diciendo mi adiós al cerro.

Como ese grillo del campo
que solitario cantaba...
así perdida en la noche también
era un grillo, vida y mi zamba...
así perdida en la noche
se va mi zamba, Palomita.

A los cerros tucumanos
he vuelto en un triste invierno
tan sólo el monte y el río,
envuelto en mis penas, pasar me vieron
tan sólo el monte y el río,
envuelto en mis penas, pasar me vieron.

La luna alumbraba el canto
del grillo junto al camino
y yo con sombra en el alma
pensaba en la ausencia del bien perdido
y yo con sombra en el alma
pensaba en la ausencia del bien perdido.

Como ese grillo del campo
que solitario cantaba...
así perdida en la noche también
era un grillo, vida y zamba...
así perdida en la noche
se va mi zamba, Palomita.

 

The Cricket Samba

From the Tucumanos hills
my paths took me
And feelings brought me back
that never will have been forgotten
And feelings brought me back
that never will have been forgotten

A happy cricket filling
his song of blue and January
and while returning to the fields
I was gradually saying goodbye to the hills
and while returning to the fields
I was gradually saying goodbye to the hills

Like that cricket from the field
that was singing alone
so, also lost in the night
I too was a cricket, life and my samba
so, lost in the night
my samba goes along , Little Dove

To the Tucumanos hills
I have returned in a dreadful winter
only the mountain and the river
saw me pass wrapped in my grief
only the mountain and the river
saw me pass wrapped in my grief

The moon illuminated the song
of the cricket next to the path
And I with darkness in my soul
was thinking of the absence of the utterly lost
And I with darkness in my soul
was thinking of the absence of the utterly lost

Like that cricket from the field
that was singing alone
so, also lost in the night
I too was a cricket, life and my samba
so, lost in the night
goes along my samba, Little Dove

Joán Manuel Serrat nació el 27 de diciembre, 1943 en Barcelona. Acabó todos sus estudios allí y en su adolescencia estudió la agronomía. Su padre le dio una guitarra a la edad de 17 años y él formó un grupo musical con tres de sus amigos. Hizo también la instrucción del ejército en este momento y desarrolló un amor de la poesía.
En 1964 obtuvo un lugar en la radio local que daba tiempo aéreo a músicos locales. El demostró un éxito y grabó - en el catalán - su primer disco (EP) el año siguiente.
En 1966 terminó su estudia agronomía y grabó su segundo EP. Decidió dedicarse a la música. Varios otros discos simples siguieron y en 1968 él grabó su primer simple en español. Había mucho argumento sobre el idioma de uso (el español o el catalán) entre Serrat y los catalanes contra la radio y la televisión nacional. Pero Serrat llegó a ser popular de todos modos e hizo su primera visita a Sudamérica en 1969.
Aparte de sus muchos EP y simples, ahora ha grabado alrededor de 35 álbumes.