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Penélope, con su bolso de piel marrón
y sus zapatos de tacón,
y su vestido de domingo,
Penélope se sienta en un banco en el andén
y espera que llegue el primer tren,
meneando el abanico.
Dicen en el pueblo que un caminante paró
su reloj una tarde de primavera.
“Adiós, amor mío, no me llores, volveré
antes que de los sauces caigan las hojas.
¡Piensa en mí, volveré por ti!”
Pobre infeliz, se paró tu reloj infantil
una tarde plomiza de abril,
cuando se fue tu amante.
Se marchitó en tu huerto hasta la última flor,
No hay un sauce en la calle mayor
para Penélope.
Penélope, tristes a fuerza de esperar
sus ojos parecen brillar
si un tren silba a lo lejos.
Penélope, uno tras otro los ve pasar,
mira sus caras, los oye hablar;
para ella son muñecos.
Dicen en el pueblo que el caminante volvió,
la encontró en su banco de pino verde.
La llamó: “¡Penélope, mi amante fiel, mi paz,
deja ya de tejer sueños en tu mente!
¡Mírame, soy tu amor, regresé!”
Le sonrió con los ojos llenitos de ayer.
“No era así su cara ni su piel,
tú no eres quien yo espero.”
Y se quedó, con su bolso de piel marrón
y sus zapatitos de tacón,
sentada en la estación.
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Penelope, with her brown leather pocketbook,
Dressed in her finest Sunday look,
With high-heel shoes over her stockings.
Penelope is sitting on a station bench while
She waits for any train to come by;
Her Spanish fan is rocking.
In the town they say that one day a traveling man
Stopped her clock on an afternoon in the springtime.
“Fare you well, my love, don’t cry for me, for I’ll
be back
Well before you see leaves falling from the willows.
Think of me, I’ll come back for you!”
Poor wretched girl, since the clock of your childhood
stopped dead
On an April day with skies of lead,
The day your lover left you.
Now all the flowers in your garden have wilted away,
There’s no willow on Main Street today
For you, Penelope.
Penelope, so sad from waiting all these years,
Her eyes still shine each time she hears
A distant whistle blowing.
Penelope looks at them one by one as they walk,
She sees their faces and hears them talk;
To her they’re puppets crowing.
In the town they say that one day the traveler came back,
Found her there on her green pine bench at the station,
And he called: “Penelope, my faithful love, my peace,
You can stop weaving those dreams inside your mind now.
Look at me, I’m your love, I’ve returned!”
She smiled at him, with her eyes full of yesterday’s mist.
“No, his face and his skin weren’t like this,
You’re not who I’m expecting.”
And there she stayed, with her brown leather pocketbook,
Still dressed in her high-heeled Sunday look,
Still seated by the tracks.
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