In the region of Andalusia,
A Spanish girl dances the flamenco,
With no strung guitar to aid her,
Her steps surpass the tempo’s allegro.
Her heeled shoes shake the earth beneath her,
Her dance can be heard up to Heaven,
And while she does so she sings,
Attracting the beating of angels’ wings.
She takes out her castañuelas*,
And its chattering brings out neighbors and friends,
They clap along to the beat of her small feet
Her song rises and reaches the world’s ends.
The voice of the Spanish girl is that of a violin
Which disperses in the wind
West to Portugal and North to France
She spreads the contagious rhythm of her dance.
Never take for granted the spell of the flamenco,
For even when danced soft and mellow,
It is so enchanting,
It takes so much as the smallest tapping,
For the Spanish girl to set you smiling and laughing