Habanera

If it could return again
the past bitter time
we could consume the same
in the sweet vanilla,
in a distant sea
lost in imagination
in the spring rain
seeing the lilies bloom.

I never was a merchant
in Havana,
there was no piano
I lived in that house,
the girls' delicate heels
on summer evenings,
the holy rosary
in the cold winter room.

The heels keep
the taste of the heels
in the desired hot bath
amidst the bitterness of regret,
the night you left
with a guilty conscience
the hours go by
with the wings of memories.

We were born, we live
we ask for nothing
the ship slowly
is moving away from the shore.
The Antilles are shining
on the walls of photographs
I will write a letter
for someone to answer.

Tobacco, rum and cinnamon
in the spinning nights
the cries were heard
in the brothels of Havana,
the drunken sailors
making wind to the night
the muses of music
were shedding blood.

We were born, we live
we ask for nothing
the ship slowly
is moving away from the shore.
The Antilles are shining
on the walls of photographs
I will write a letter
for someone to answer.