Mi luna

My moon
has seen so much
that when I sing to her, her silver cradles me
like the saints
and the prisoners, the lovers
the wandering madmen and the beggars
who we nurse with your light.

When there are no friends, bread or money
only the poetry that floats in the sincere air
and in the lonely benches
that are in the parks
that die of cold
waiting for dawn-loving.

Oh my full moon, listen to the sorrow
when a man sings
to the love that waits
Oh my full moon, listen to the sorrow
when a man sings
to the love that wants
Oh my full moon, listen to the sorrow
when a man sings
to the love that dies
Oh my full moon.