La Mujer Más Vieja Del Mundo

She was never the most beautiful dancer in the room.
No one dueled for her, Sabina never sang about her.
Lautrec never drew her beautiful scars.
Damn Penelope, never returned to Ulysses.

No client fell in love with her,
and the sea didn't hide behind her green eyes.
She hadn't lost a man, there was no heartbreak,
just some bad potions, hunger, some failures.

The oldest woman in the world
sells peace, stands in the dark waiting,
for you to come to her to heal your wound,
to clear your doubts, to bury you in caresses,
to hide in her hands, to be coldly sheltered.

Taking hits, not just from life.
Like autumn leaves, her days were falling.
What will you do when time devours all your hours?
Maybe snow will cover you, maybe you'll age alone.

You lie and smile as a nettle grows
in your mouth when you kiss an unknown skin.
And even if you survive, don't tell me tales,
you're not a witch from the north, nor are you blessed.

The oldest woman in the world
sells peace, stands in the dark waiting,
for you to come to her to heal your wound,
to clear your doubts, to bury you in caresses,
to hide in her hands, to be coldly sheltered.

Night flower, I don't want to give her my sorrow,
nor show her my pity, I don't want to pity her.
Proletarian whore, with all due respect I just want
to greet her in solidarity, to pay my respects.
To pay my respects.