Ropa blanca
Ropa blanca (Whites) is the title of a milonga written by Homero Manzi in 1943. The music was composed by Alfredo Malerba.
Contents
Recordings
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Lyrics
Lava la ropa, mulata,
pena y amor.
La espuma por blanca
parece algodón.
Tus manos por negras,
betún y carbón.
Lava la ropa, mulata,
pena y amor.
Me dicen que por el río
al soplo del viento sur,
se fue tu negro Fanchico
en una barquita azul.
Estás lavando y llorando,
llorando por su traición,
que es triste seguir amando
después que se fue el amor.
Me dicen que por el agua,
y que por el cañadón,
y que por la calle larga
robaron tu corazón.
Lava la ropa, mulata,
pena y amor.
Lavando y fregando
con llanto y jabón,
quítale las manchas a tu corazón,
a tu corazón.
Lava la ropa, mulata,
pena y amor.
Lavando la ropa blanca
con tus manos de tizón,
piensas en aquel pañuelo
que tu cariño bordó.
Lavando ropa en la orilla
las olas te hacen pensar
en los amores que un día
igual que vienen se van.
No llores que por el río
y al soplo del viento sur,
tal vez retorne Fanchico
en una barquita azul.
La ropa baila en el aire,
el viento la hace bailar
tus ojos tristes y grandes
sólo saben lagrimear,
ay... ay... ¡quién será que en la tarde
los hace llorar, llorar!
Lava la ropa, mulata,
pena y amor,
la espuma por blanca
parece algodón.
Tus ojos por negros,
betún y carbón.
Lavando y fregando
con llanto y jabón,
quítale las manchas
a tu corazón.
Wash the clothes, mulatta,
sorrow and love.
The foam, because it’s white,
seems cotton.
Your hands, because they’re black,
shoe polish and charcoal.
Wash the clothes, mulatta,
sorrow and love.
They tell me that along the river,
to the blowing of the Southern wind
your black man Fanchico left
on a small, blue boat.
You’re washing and crying,
crying over his betrayal,
because it’s sad to keep loving
after love has left.
They tell me that by the water,
and around the ravine,
and that along the long street,
your heart was stolen.
Wash the clothes, mulatta,
sorrow and love.
Washing and scrubbing
with tears and soap,
remove the stains from your heart,
from your heart.
Wash the clothes, mulatta,
sorrow and love.
Washing the white clothes
with your ember hands,
you think of that handkerchief
that your affections embroidered.
Washing clothes on the shore
the waves get you thinking
about the loves that one day,
just as they arrive, leave.
Don’t cry, because along the river,
to the blowing of the Southern wind,
Fanchico might return
on a small, blue boat.
The clothes dance in the air,
the wind makes them dance.
Your eyes, sad and big,
only know to shed tears.
Oh... oh... who could it be,
who, on the afternoon, makes them cry, cry!
Wash the clothes, mulatta,
sorrow and love.
The foam, because it’s white,
seems cotton.
Your eyes, because they’re black,
shoe polish and charcoal.
Washing and scrubbing
with tears and soap,
remove the stains
from your heart.