The bohemians gather at a cantina on a winter night to celebrate the new year. They make toasts, remembering the past year and hoping for inspiration, love, and happiness in the coming year. One bohemian, Arturo, toasts not to a lover but to his mother, who gave him life and love as a child. He hopes to return to her soon. The others are moved by his sentimental toast to his mother.
The bohemians gather at a cantina on a winter night to celebrate the new year. They make toasts, remembering the past year and hoping for inspiration, love, and happiness in the coming year. One bohemian, Arturo, toasts not to a lover but to his mother, who gave him life and love as a child. He hopes to return to her soon. The others are moved by his sentimental toast to his mother.
The bohemians gather at a cantina on a winter night to celebrate the new year. They make toasts, remembering the past year and hoping for inspiration, love, and happiness in the coming year. One bohemian, Arturo, toasts not to a lover but to his mother, who gave him life and love as a child. He hopes to return to her soon. The others are moved by his sentimental toast to his mother.
on a winter’s night rejoicefully were sharing six happy bohemians The echos of their laughter were escaping and, from that quiet town they were going to interrupt the imposing and profund silence
The smoke of aromatic cigarettes
in spirals was raising to the sky symbolizing, as it dissipated into nothing the life of dreams … the dreams of life
I neglected to tell you, in that evening
this bohemian group among laughter and sorrow, were celebrating the happy arrival of the new year
Suddenly, a manly voice said
It is Midnight, comrades Let us all toast for the year that has become part of the Dead
Let us toast to the year that starts
May it brings us sweet dreams not sour grief Let us toast this time to the hope that Life throws at us and the pains alleviate
I toast that, in my existence
already riddled with violence and vengeance if, in my heaven, from yours – clean and divine would shine but a star … my hope
I drink and toast to my past,
which was of light, of love, and happiness, and in which the gorgeous foreheads of seductive ladies had joined mine
I toast to Yesterday that, with sorrow
today covers with darkness my poor heart scatters its comfort bringing into my mind the sweetness of joy, of tenderness, of good fortune, and concerns I toast that in my mind sprout a torrent of divine inspiration, that the chords of my lyre vibrate the verse that yearns, sings, and fall in love
I toast that my verses
reach the center of the woman that I love for that with interest my passion pays off for that I get intoxicated with the nectar of her kisses
Continued the barrage of meaningless phrases
of those so human and, after each phrase of ardent enthusiasm applause would grow
They toasted to the Motherland, to the flowers
to the chaste loves and to heated passions that fill with roses the mud of pleasure
Only one toast was missing, Arturo’s
the pure bohemian of noble heart he stated that he only wanted to steal the inspiration from Sadness
And this way he spoke, with inspired intensity
I toast to the woman, yet not to the one
in which you find solace in sadness not to the one that gives us her charms when you kiss her soft and scented curls
I do not toast to her … No, comrades
Sorry that this time I don’t please you I toast to the woman, but only to one to the one that offered me delights and engulfed me with her kisses I toast to the woman that tucked me in the crib
I toast to the woman that taught me from childhood
the value of profound and truthful love I toast to the woman who cuddled me in her arms and that bit by bit gave me her entire heart
To that golden and blessed old lady
that with her blood she offered me life to the one that was the light of my soul today I toast to my Mother, to my darling Mother
To that sad old woman that lives and cries
and to Heavens implores that I return to my Mother, bohemians, who is the sweetness poured into my sorrow and, in this night, a star who wishes that I soon be with her
The bohemian became silent
and not a word spoiled the sentiment born from pain and tenderness and it appeared that, over that atmosphere, was immensely floating …
A Poem of Love and Sorrow
El Brindis Del Bohemio
En torno de una mesa de cantina
una noche de invierno regocijadamente departían seis alegres bohemios Los ecos de sus risas escapaban y de aquel barrio quieto iban a interrumpir el imponente y profundo silencio
El humo de olorosos cigarillos
en espirales se elevaba al cielo simbolizando al revolverse en nada la vida de los sueños … los sueños de la vida
Olvidaba decir que aquella noche
aquel grupo bohemio celebraba entre risas y amarguras la llegada feliz del año nuevo
Una voz varonil dijo de pronto
las Doce, compañeros Digamos el brindis por el año que ha pasado a formar entre los muertos
Brindemos por el año que comienza
porque nos traiga ensueños no amargos desconsuelos Brindemos esta vez por la esperanza que a la vida nos lanza y las penas mitigan
Brindo porque hubiese a mi existencia
ya puesto fin por violencia y por venganza si en mi cielo de tu limpio y divino no alumbrara mi sino una estrella … mi esperanza
Bebo y brindo por mi pasado
que fue de luz, de amor y de alegría y en el que hubo mujeres seductoras y frentes soñadoras que se juntaron con la frente mía
Brindo por el ayer que en la amargura
hoy cubre de negrura mi pobre corazón esparce sus consuelos trayendo hacia mi mente las dulzuras de goces, de ternuras, de dichas y desvelos Brindo porque en mi mente brote un torrente de inspiración divina porque vibre en las cuerdas de mi lira el verso que suspira, que canta y enamora
Brindo porque mis versos
lleguen al centro de la mujer que quiero porque con creces mi pasión me pague porque me embriague con el néctar de sus besos
Siguió la tempestad de frases vanas
de aquellas tan humanas y en cada frase de entusiasmo ardiente hubo aplauso creciente
Brindaron por la Patria, por las flores
por los castos amores y por las pasiones voluptuosas que, al fango del placer, llena de rosas
Sólo faltaba un brindis, el de Arturo
el del bohemio puro, de noble corazón declaraba que sólo ambicionaba robarle inspiración a la tristeza
Y dijo así, con inspirado acento
Brindo por la mujer, mas no por esa
en la que hallas consuelo en la tristeza, no por la que nos brinda sus hechizos cuando besas sus rizos, suaves y perfumados
Yo no brindo por ella … No, compañeros
siento por esta vez no complaceros Brindo por la mujer, pero por una por la que me brindó embelesos y me envolvió en sus besos brindo por la mujer que me arrulló en la cuna
Brindo por la mujer que me enseñó de niño
lo que vale el cariño profundo y verdadero Brindo por la mujer que me arrulló en sus brazos y que me dió en pedazos el corazón entero
Por la anciana dorada y bendicida,
por la que con su sangre me brindó la vida por la que fue la luz del alma mía hoy brindo por mi Madre, por mi Madre querida
Por la anciana infeliz que vive y llora
y que del cielo implora que vuelva por mi Madre, bohemios, que es dulzura vertida en mi amargura y en esta noche, estrella que yo vuelva muy pronto ha estar con ella
El bohemio calló y ningún acento profanó el sentimiento nacido del dolor y la ternura y pareció que sobre aquel ambiente flotaba inmensamente …