Mis Flores Negras

Listen, under the ruins of my passions
At the bottom of this soul that you no longer delight
Among the dust of dreams and illusions
My black flowers sprout numb

They are my pains, buds made
With intense sorrows from my bowels
They bury their roots, like ferns
In the humid cracks of the mountains

They are your disdain and your rigors
They are your treacheries and your deviations
With your vibrant and scorching kisses
In adorned petals, black and cold

They are memories of those hours
When, captured in my arms, you fell asleep
While I sighed for the dawns
Of your eyes, dawns that were not mine

They are my sighs and my reproaches
Hidden in this soul that you no longer delight
That's why they are as black as the nights
In the icy poles, my black flowers

So keep this sad, weak bunch
That I offer you from those somber flowers
Keep it, fear nothing: It's a remnant
From the garden of my deep melancholies