They say that at night
he would do nothing but cry;
they say he wouldn’t eat,
and would do nothing but drink.
They swear heaven itself
shuddered at the sound of his crying,
he suffered for her so,
that even in death he would call her:
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, he sang,
ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, he moaned,
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, he sang,
of a mortal passion, he died.
They say a sad dove,
in the early morning,
sings to the empty house
with its doors wide open;
they swear the dove
is nothing other than his soul,
which still awaits the return of the ill-fated woman.
Cucurrucucú dove, cucurrucucú don’t cry.
The stones would never… dove,
what would they know of love?
Cucurrucucú, cucurrucucú,
Cucurrucucú, cucurrucucú,
cucurrucucú, dove, stop crying.
