Isla Mujeres

The heat rose as she passed by my sidewalk,
the whole boulevard could burn in her fire.
There's a legion of satyrs and pirates
who, from bar to bar, shout at her: Beautiful!

I become a follower of her panther-like strides,
I pilgrimage wherever her hips command;
what do I care if the street is a hell,
if finally I hold her by the waist.

Listen, my dear,
you're the queen of Isla Mujeres;
and I, if you want me,
will be your most faithful slave.
Poor me,
if I lose myself in your fire,
my heart, from cold,
will forget to beat.

A copper sun spills over her profile,
the April rose, naked in the middle of the bed,
has offered herself to me with disarming love,
clouds reason and burns the soul.

And it was to be expected that I would hope to keep her,
but all the sea is not enough sea for that pearl.
The boulevard burns and, on the edge of madness,
it's not me who goes from her waist.