De barro

I'm looking at my life
in the glass of a puddle
and as I meditate
the lost hours pass by,
the withered dreams.

And your beloved eyes are
in the mirror of mud,
ghost of my cigarette,
reproach and forgetfulness,
condemnation and forgiveness.

Your distant eyes return
with the tears of that day.
To think that I placed in your hands
a guilt that was mine.
To think that I didn't call you
and I was glad
while you were suffering,
to think that I didn't follow you
and I laughed
when you left crying.

And now that my life is not worth
nor this cigarette butt,
I just know that contempt and resentment
are made of mud.

So measuring your sorrow
I consume nights and nights
trying to see in the smoke
of the cigarette I smoke
your serene image.
And upon finding you lost
between cigarette and cigarette,
I know it was all made of mud,
made of mud my life,
made of mud my love.