Temblando
Temblando (Trembling) is the title of a tango vals written by Charrúa (Gualberto Márquez) in 1945. The music was composed by Alberto Acuña.
Contents
Recordings
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Lyrics
Linda estaba la tarde que la vi,
en el patio de su rancho acomodando
y aunque guapo, muy guapo me sentía,
no pude hablarle y me quedé temblando.
Estaba como nunca la había visto,
vestido livianito de zaraza,
con el pelo volcado sobre el hombro
era una virgen que encontré en la casa.
Ni ella ni yo, ninguno dijo nada,
con sus ojazos me siguió quemando,
dejó el rebozo que tenía en la mano,
me quiso hablar y se quedó temblando.
Era el recuerdo del amor primero,
amor nacido en nuestra edad temprana,
como esas flores rústicas del campo
que nacen de la noche a la mañana.
Amor que está oculto en los adobes
de su rancho paterno tan sencillo
y en la corteza del ombú del patio
escrito con la punta del cuchillo.
Me di vuelta pisando despacito,
como quien desconfía de una trampa,
envolviendo recuerdos y emociones
entre las listas de mi poncho pampa.
No sé qué me pasó, monté a caballo
y me fui galopando a rienda suelta,
con todos los recuerdos y emociones
que en las listas del poncho saqué envueltas.
Linda estaba la tarde en que la vide,
el patio de su rancho acomodando.
La tarde en que guapo me sentía
no pude hablarle y me quedé temblando.
Pretty she was that afternoon I saw her
tidying up the patio of her ranch,
and even though I was feeling brave, very brave,
I couldn’t talk to her and I stayed there, trembling.
She was like I had never seen her,
a little, light chintz dress,
with her hair pouring down her shoulder
she was a virgin I found in the house.
Not her, not me, none of us said a word.
She kept burning me with her big eyes,
she left the shawl she had in her hand,
she wanted to speak to me but stayed there, trembling.
It was the memory of the first love,
a love born at the early age
like those rustic flowers from the fields
that appear overnight.
Love that’s hidden within the bricks
of her father’s ranch, so simple,
and on the bark of the ombú in the patio,
carved with the point of the knife.
I turned around stepping softly,
as someone who’s suspicious there might be a trap,
wrapping memories and emotions
among the stripes of my pampa poncho.
I don’t know what came over me, I got on my horse
and went away, galloping at full speed,
with all the memories and the emotions
that I took wrapped in the stripes of the poncho.
Pretty she was that afternoon I saw her,
tidying up the patio of her ranch.
The afternoon I was feeling so brave,
I couldn’t speak to her and stayed there, trembling.