Mediterráneo.

Perhaps because my childhood
continues playing on your beach
and hidden behind the reeds
sleeps my first love,
I carry your light and your scent
wherever I go,
and piled up in your sand
I keep love, games, and sorrows.

I, who have on my skin the bitter taste
of eternal tears
that a hundred towns have shed in you
from Algeciras to Istanbul
so you can paint blue
their long winter nights.

Through misfortunes,
your soul is deep and dark.

To your red sunsets
my eyes have become accustomed
like the bend in the road.
I am a singer, I am a liar,
I like games and wine,
I have a sailor's soul.
What can I do, if I
was born in the Mediterranean.

And you come close, and you leave
after kissing my village.
Playing with the tide
you leave, thinking of returning.
You are like a woman
perfumed with tar
longed for and loved
known and feared.

Oh, if one day, to my misfortune
death comes looking for me.
Push my boat out to sea
with an autumnal east wind
and let the storm
dismantle its white wings.

And bury me without mourning
between the beach and the sky...

On the slope of a mountain,
higher than the horizon.
I want to have a good view.
My body will be a path,
I will give green to the pines
and yellow to the broom.

Near the sea. Because I
was born in the Mediterranean.