Canto de la Casa Vieja

Can’t vouch for the translation. I didn’t do it, and I can’t figure out which website I got the poem from (I don’t think it’s currently on the Internet).

There’s an incredible sense of mystery and loss with this one…

Song of the Old Home

José Joaquín Ribera Chevremont

There is the old house where I played as a child.
The walls are covered with ivy;
under the overgrown bushes I can see
the stone water fountain where I met my first love.
There on the front door I can almost see
our good old dog Carino guarding
the entrance where once was a garden with
the sweet smell of lilacs and colorful flowers.
 
Good old home of my infancy, I left 
your embrace one day to give myself
to great pleasures and love.  
Today, I’m back full of melancholy 
and my heart wounded by immense pain.
 
There are no more roses or lilacs…
The house is deserted.  As I look between
the curtains I can still see the piano
the now silent piano of our dead mother
that knew the magic of her hands…
 
Everything looks the same, the silent hall
the pictures on the wall of the moon over Venice.
A book of poems and the rose lamp by
the picture of my elder brother Evaristo.
 
I have lived the life of gallant bohemia
amongst laughter, silks and perfumes of love
Oh the golden blonde princess from
that distant time, Margarita, Gracuela,
Beatriz and Leanor!
 
Oh the enchantment of another life
with ladies of royal rank
There were affairs, daring escapades
in the regional halls of a
castle in Spain!
 
Then, one night of fiesta, music and wine
I felt the cold sharpness of a dagger
as I was leaving a famous cabaret in Paris…