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Humillación (Humiliation) is the title of a tango written by Carlos Bahr in 1941. The music was composed by Rodolfo Biagi.




Rodolfo Biagi

Year of composition:



Lyrics writer(s):

Carlos Bahr

Despite recognizing his own guilt, the poet can't manage to recover from his wounded pride, and so sends out a cry full of hatred towards the love that humiliated him.


At the moment, there are no recordings for this song stored in the TangoWiki. If you have sources, add a new recording.


Spanish: Humillación

Yo no sabía del amor que se arrodilla,
balbuceando ruegos, manso de altiveces.
Fue de ese modo, con flaquezas que aún me humillan,
como en mi delirio, te llegué a querer.

Hoy que despierto frente a tu liviana pasión
en mi conciencia que sintió de lleno el rigor,
brota a despecho de este amor que me envilece,
el grito rebelde de mi humillación.

Odio este amor, que me humilló a tus antojos,
odio este amor, que me enseñó a suplicar.
Ansia torpe que me arrodilló
bajo el yugo de tu pretensión,
odio este amor que al doblegar mi entereza,
me rebajó a mendigar tu calor.

No te reprocho si tu amor que fue inconstante,
puso en mi existencia, sombras de abandono;
ni tienes culpa si maldigo a cada instante,
lo que fue flaqueza de mi corazón.

Mía es la culpa por haber rodado a tus pies,
y es mi castigo condenar mi propia pasión,
frente al reproche de mi orgullo lastimado,
que no se consuela de su humillación.

English: Humiliation

I knew nothing of a love that kneels
babbling pleads, tamely prideless.
So it was, with weaknesses that still humiliate me,
that in my delirium, I came to love you.

Today as I wake up before your half-hearted passion,
from my conscience that endured all the harshness,
breaks out, in spite of this love that defiles me,
the rebellious cry of my humiliation.

I hate this love that humiliated me to your fancy,
I hate this love that taught me to beg.
Clumsy desire that made me kneel
under the yoke of your ambition.
I hate this love that subduing my fortitude
debased me to begging for your warmth.

I don't reproach your inconstant love
for laying shadows of abandonment over my existence,
nor is it your fault if I curse with every passing moment
what was weakness in my own heart.

Mine is the guilt for having rolled under your feet,
and it’s my punishment alone to condemn my own passion,
before the reproach of my hurt pride,
which finds no peace from its humiliation.


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