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Nasín cando as prantas nasen,
no mes das froles nasín,
nunha alborada mainiña,
nunha alborada de abril.
Por eso me chaman Rosa,
mais a do triste sorrir,
con espiñas para todos,
sin ningunha para ti.
Desque te quixen, ingrato,
todo acabou para min,
que eras ti para min todo,
miña groria e meu vivir.
¿De que, pois, te queixas, Mauro?
¿De que, pois, te queixas, di,
cando sabes que morrera
por te contemplar felís?
Duro cravo me encravaches
con ese teu maldesir,
con ese teu pedir tolo
que non sei que quer de min,
pois dinche canto dar puden
avariciosa de ti.
O meu corasón che mando
cunha chave para o abrir,
nin eu teño máis que darche,
nin ti máis que me pedir.
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I was born when the seedlings sprout;
In the month of the flowers was I born
On a gentle, gentle dawn,
With the first light of an April morn.
That’s why they call me Rose,
Yet her of the wry smile,
With thorns to offer everyone,
With none to offer you.
From the day I loved you, ingrate,
Everything for me ended
For you were all to me—
My bliss and my life.
What then, Mauro, do you grumble about?
Of what, say, can you complain
When you know that I would even die
To see you happy in my eyes?
With a hard spike you nailed me,
With those curses of yours,
With your insane demands
That urge I know not what of me
Since I gave you what I could give,
Greedy for you.
My heart I send to you
With a key that unlocks it—
No more have I to give to you
Nor you more to ask of me.
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