Most delicate señorita of mine,
drop those passionate castanets.
La marea captures her image fine,
moonlight reflecting on each wave.
Chords of adventure that she gave,
el escritor enamored by her dance,
scribing rhythmic moves of romance.
Vuestro noche, behold golden strings.
Mexico becomes silent as she sings,
el cuaderno importante remains torn.
That stroke of midnight again reborn,
the dance hall vibrating with applause.
La guitarra española plays without pause,
bottles of vino emptied by its tune,
Sunday morning until Monday afternoon,
six immaculate strings leading beauty.