First, a far-off April date—
your dark balcony, your old-fashioned garden.
Later on the feverish pulse of your letters—
lying with “no,” vowing that “yes…”
A neighborhood romance, your love and my love,
first came desire, then came sorrow—
for faults that were never ours,
for faults that we both had to suffer.
Today you might live
despising me, perhaps not even thinking
that I lament not being able to have you,
the sorrow of not knowing how to forget.
Today you might be
further than ever from my side,
far from so much weeping.
This was because, yes:
spite blinded you just like me,
without seeing that in the malice of that farewell
you cruelly punished your own heart.
This was because, yes:
suddenly we didn’t know how to believe
that it is easier to renounce and to part
than to live without forgetting…
Your voice and my voice return, defeated
bringing with them in horrified tones,
those faults that were never ours,
those faults for which we both had to pay.
Homero Manzi [Homero Nicolás Manzione Prestera] (1907 - 1951) Argentina
Translated by Derek Del Pilar
Source: The Poetry of the Tango
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