PENA MULATA.

A mulatto woman's sorrow unfurls beneath an embroidered housecoat.

The sorrow of a milonga whose mournful complaint barely prolongs an April night.

Like an old, polished mirror, the dancer's skin gleams.

A scarlet carnation betrays longing, its crimson stain trembling on her gown.

Your mother died of love in the Quarter of the Drum. A wagon driver's dagger opened paths of absence before her.

Your father died in the shadows avenging that betrayal. Mulatta, your star was born beneath a sky of mourning crepe.

A light of madness shines in the dancer's dark, unyielding gaze.

The liquor of longing, warmed by the rhythm of the dance, heats old desires for vengeance beneath his hair.

Poor dark-skinned girl, in your veins there bloomed a quiet crimson flower.

Resentment lies in wait; the brush of spite paints upon your breast a crimson stain.

Your mother died of love, a white soul and coal-black skin. Mulatta, her lips held a wagon driver's resentment. Your father died in the shadows to avenge that betrayal. Mulatta, your star was born beneath a sky of mourning crepe.

A mulatto woman's sorrow unfurls beneath an embroidered housecoat.

The sorrow of a milonga whose mournful complaint barely prolongs an April night.