Água Pasada
Joaquín Sabina
Water Under the Bridge
The worst part of love when it ends
are the ventilated rooms,
the solo in pajamas with a mute,
the adrenaline in separate beds.
The bad part of afterwards are the remains
that embalm the dream birds,
the cell phones that insult with their eyes,
the systole without diastole or owner.
The atrocious part is not wanting to know who you are,
water under the bridge, scorched earth,
whether it's the same to wait for you or for you to wait for me,
that you are not you among all women,
that the account is settled.
The love songs you didn't want
are already rolling on the sidewalks,
played by the orchestras of the sad
so that Mr. Nobody dances with anyone.
The suitcases that arrive without your clothes
drift lost in airports,
passion when it passes is a cup
of blood drained in the Dead Sea.
Mending venial virtues,
sentencing archives to galleys,
when the final point of endings
is not followed by suspension points.
Worse is not knowing who you are,
water under the bridge, scorched earth,
whether it's the same to wait for you or for you to wait for me,
that you are not you among all women,
that the account is settled.
