Every year, as the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Day, El Brindis del Bohemio emerges in cantinas, homes, and gatherings across Mexico. Written by Guillermo Aguirre y Fierro in 1915, it has transformed into a ritual, a tradition that crosses generations. The poem has now become a shared experience for an entire community, a bridge between the past and the present.
Understanding This Popular Mexican Poem
For many, this recitation is a way to mark the end of one year and the arrival of another. The laughter, the camaraderie, and the clinking of glasses are woven together with the words. These words speak of loss, of joy, of dreams, of memories. A moment when those present can reflect on what has passed and look ahead with hope. The collective voice raised in unison makes the occasion feel like something sacred.
This poem has become an echo of the past. It has also become a living thing that acts as a reminder of the cultural ties that bind people together. The simple act of raising a glass, of speaking the verses, holds the weight of shared histories, of experiences lived together. It speaks of the shared struggles, the shared joys, the memories of all those who came before. In those words, there is something that transcends time, something that cannot be easily explained.
The final toast is what lingers the longest, which is a tribute to the mother who is not only a figure of care and love but a symbol of continuity. Let’s not forget that in Mexican culture, the mother is a cornerstone. So, the poem’s closing lines speak directly to that relationship. The mother who gave life, the mother who gave warmth, the mother whose absence is felt deeply. Interestingly, in the recitation, the mother lives on, not just in memory but in the very words that are spoken.
With every passing year, El Brindis del Bohemio grows in significance. It is a celebration of the lives lived and those who continue to live in the memory of others. This tradition now ties people together, across generations, across time, and across the spaces where they gather.
The Poem ‘El Brindis del Bohemio’ in Spanish
En torno de una mesa de cantina,una noche de invierno,regocijadamente departíanseis alegres bohemios.
Los ecos de sus risas escapabany de aquel barrio quietoiban a interrumpir el imponentey profundo silencio.
El humo de olorosos cigarrillosen espirales se elevaba al cielo,simbolizando al revolverse en nadala vida de los sueños.
Pero en todos los labios había risas,inspiración en todos los cerebros,y repartidas en la mesa,copas pletóricas de ron, whisky o ajenjo.
Era curioso ver aquel conjunto,de aquel grupo bohemio,del que brotaba la palabra chusca,la que vierte veneno,lo mismo que melosa y delicada,la música de un verso.
A cada nueva libación, las penashallábanse más lejos del grupoy nueva inspiración llegabaa todos los cerebroscon el idilio roto que veníaen alas del recuerdo.
Olvidaba decir que aquella noche,aquel grupo bohemiocelebraba entre risas, libaciones,chascarrillos y versos,la agonía de un año que amargurasdejó en todos los pechos,y la llegada, consecuencia lógica,del feliz año nuevo…
Una voz varonil dijo de pronto:¡Las 12, compañeros!Digamos el “requiescat” por el añoque ha pasado a formar entre los muertos.
¡Brindemos por el año que comienza!porque nos traiga ensueños;porque no sea su equipaje un cúmulode amargos desconsuelos.
Brindo, -dijo otra voz-, por la esperanzaque a la vida nos lanza,de vencer los rigores del destino,por la esperanza, nuestra dulce amigaque las penas mitigay convierte en vergel nuestro camino.
Brindo, porque ya hubiese a mi existenciapuesto fin con violenciaesgrimiendo en mi frente mi venganza,si en mi cielo de tu limpio y divinono alumbrara mi sinouna pálida estrella: “Mi Esperanza”.
¡Bravo!, -dijeron todos-, inspiradoesta noche has estadoy hablaste breve, bueno y sustancioso.
El turno es de Raúl; alce su copay brinde por… Europa,ya que su extranjerismo es delicioso…
Bebo y brindo, -clamó el interpelado-,brindo por mi pasado,que fue de luz, de amor y de alegría,y en el que hubo mujeres seductorasy frentes soñadorasque se juntaron con la frente mía…
Brindo por el ayer que en la amarguraque hoy cubre de negrurami corazón, esparce sus consuelos,trayendo hasta mi mente las dulzurasde goces, de ternuras,de dichas, de deliquios, de desvelos.
Yo brindo, -dijo Juan-, porque en mi mentebrote un torrentede inspiración divina, seductora,porque vibre en las cuerdas de mi lirael verso que suspira,que sonríe, que canta y que enamora.
Brindo porque mis versos cual saetaslleguen hasta las grutasformadas de metal y de granito,del corazón de la mujer ingrataque a desdenes me mata…¡Pero que tiene un cuerpo muy bonito!
Porque a su corazón llegue mi canto,porque enjuguen mi llantosus manos que me causan embelesos,porque con creces mi pasión pague…¡Vamos! porque me embriaguecon el divino néctar de sus besos.
Siguió la tempestad de frases vanas,de aquellas tan humanasque hallan en todas partes acomodo,y en cada frase de entusiasmo ardiente,hubo ovación creciente,y libaciones y reír y todo.
Se brindó por la Patria, por las flores,por los castos amoresque hacen un valladar de una ventana,y por esas pasiones voluptuosasque el fango del placer llena de rosasy hacen de la mujer la cortesana.
Solo faltaba un brindis, el de Arturo,el del bohemio purode noble corazón y gran cabeza;aquel que sin ambagesdeclaraba que solo ambicionabarobarle inspiración a la tristeza.
Por todos estrechado alzó la copafrente a la alegre tropadesbordante de risa y de contento.
Los inundó en la luz de su mirada,sacudió su melena alborotaday dijo así, con inspirado acento:
Brindo por la mujer, más no por esaen la que halláis consuelo en la tristezarescoldo del placer ¡Desventurados!;no por esa que os brinda sus hechizoscuando besáis sus rizosartificiosamente perfumados.
Yo no brindo por ella, compañeros,siento por esta vez no complaceros;brindo por la Mujer, ¡pero por Una!por la que me brindó sus embelesosy me envolvió en sus besos:por la mujer que me arrulló en la cuna.
Por la mujer que me enseñó de niñolo que vale el cariñoexquisito, profundo y verdadero;por la mujer que me arrulló en sus brazosy que me dio en pedazos,uno por uno, el corazón entero.
¡Por mi Madre! bohemios.Por la anciana que piensa en el mañana,como en algo muy dulce y muy deseado;porque sueña tal vez, que mi destinome señala el caminopor el que volveré pronto a su lado.
Por la anciana adorada y bendecida,por la que con su sangre me dio viday ternura y cariño;por la que fue la luz del alma míay lloró de alegríasintiendo mi cabeza en su corpiño.
¡Por eso brindo yo!dejad que llore, y en lágrimas desfloreesta pena letal que me asesina;dejad que brinde por mi madre ausente,por la que llora y sienteque mi ausencia es un fuego que calcina.
Por la anciana infeliz que gime y lloray que del cielo implora,que vuelva yo muy pronto a estar con ella;por mi Madre, bohemios,que es dulzura vertida en mi amarguray en esta noche de mi vida, estrella…
El bohemio calló.
Ningún acento profanó el sentimientonacido del dolor y la ternura,y pareció que sobre aquel ambienteflotaba inmensamenteun poema de amor y de amargura.
The Poem in English
Around a cantina table, on a winter’s night, joyous bohemians were happily conversing.
The echoes of their laughter escaped the quiet neighborhood, breaking the imposing, profound silence.
The smoke of fragrant cigarettes spiraled into the sky, symbolizing the life of dreams as it swirled in the air.
But on every lip, there were laughs, inspiration in every mind, and on the table, glasses full of rum, whiskey, or absinthe.
It was curious to see the group of bohemians, from which flowed the crude word, the venomous one, and the sweet, delicate music of a verse.
With each new drink, the sorrows seemed farther from the group, and fresh inspiration arrived at all the minds, with the broken idyll flying on the wings of memory.
I forgot to mention that this night, this bohemian group celebrated with laughter, drinks, jokes, and verses, the agony of a year that left bitterness in everyone’s heart, and the arrival, as a logical consequence, of the happy new year…
A masculine voice suddenly said:
“12 o’clock, comrades! Let us say ‘requiescat’ for the year that has passed to join the dead.”
“Let us toast to the year that begins! May it bring us dreams; may its baggage not be a heap of bitter regrets.”
“I toast,” another voice said, “for the hope that life throws us, to overcome the harshness of destiny, for hope, our sweet friend, that soothes the pain and turns our path into a garden.”
“I toast that my existence would have already ended violently, wielding my revenge in my forehead, if in my sky, your pure and divine light did not shine as a pale star: ‘My Hope.'”
“Bravo!” everyone said, “inspired, you have been tonight, and you spoke briefly, well, and profoundly.”
The turn was for Raúl; he raised his glass and toasted to… Europe, as his foreignism is delightful…
“I drink and toast,” the one addressed exclaimed, “I drink to my past, which was full of light, love, and joy, and in which there were seductive women and dreamy foreheads that joined with mine…”
“I toast to the yesterday that in the bitterness that today covers my heart, spreads its comfort, bringing to my mind the sweetness of joys, tenderness, bliss, and sleepless nights.”
“I toast,” said Juan, “so that in my mind blooms a torrent of divine inspiration, seductive, so that the strings of my lyre vibrate with verses that sigh, smile, sing, and make hearts fall in love.”
“I toast that my verses, like arrows, reach the grottos formed of metal and granite, the heart of the ungrateful woman who kills me with disdain… But who has a very beautiful body!”
“So that my song reaches her heart, so that my tears are wiped away by hands that cause me enchantment, so that my passion pays back with interest… Come on! So that I may be drunk with the divine nectar of her kisses.”
The storm of empty phrases continued, those so human ones that find a place everywhere, and in every phrase of burning enthusiasm, there was growing ovation, drinking, laughter, and everything.
They toasted to the homeland, to the flowers, to the chaste loves that make a window into a barricade, and to those voluptuous passions that the mud of pleasure fills with roses and turn the woman into a courtesan.
Only one toast remained, Arturo’s, the pure bohemian with a noble heart and great mind; he was the one who without reservations declared that he only wished to rob inspiration from sadness.
For all, he raised his glass, facing the joyful crowd, overflowing with laughter and contentment.
He flooded them with the light of his gaze, shook his disheveled hair, and spoke in an inspired tone:
“I toast for the woman, but not for that one in whom you find solace in sadness, embers of pleasure. Unfortunate ones! Not for the one who offers her charms when you kiss her artificially scented curls.
I do not toast for her, comrades, I feel this time I cannot please you; I toast for the Woman, but for One! The one who gave me her enchantment and wrapped me in her kisses:
For the woman who lulled me in the cradle.
For the woman who taught me as a child what true, exquisite, and deep affection is;
For the woman who rocked me in her arms and gave me her entire heart, piece by piece.”
“For my Mother! Bohemians. For the elderly one who thinks of tomorrow as something very sweet and longed for, because she dreams perhaps that my destiny marks the path I will soon return to by her side.
For the adored and blessed elderly one, the one who gave me life, tenderness, and affection with her blood; for the one who was the light of my soul and wept for joy feeling my head against her chest.”
“For that, I toast! Let me cry, and let this lethal pain that kills me bloom in tears; let me toast for my absent mother, for the one who weeps and feels that my absence is a fire that consumes.”
“For the unfortunate elderly one who groans and cries, who implores the heavens, that I may soon return to be with her; for my Mother, bohemians, who is sweetness poured into my bitterness and in this night of my life, a star…”
The bohemian fell silent. No sound profaned the feeling born from pain and tenderness, and it seemed as if over the whole atmosphere, a poem of love and sorrow floated.
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