Morir de viejo
Los Tres
Dying of old age
My eyes come from the Air
My hands dye the Sea
My legs are so long and my neck is a glacier
The veins sore from blood dripping
Leaving some tired black marks
The Water burns me
The Fire relieves me
And I never learn
Once again I stumble with the same disdain
Of quiet Love when Good no longer exists
If you were a Beast, I would be so happy
I would embrace the World and finally understand
That I am of Fire and I am Eternal
And I find no solace
If I don't soon turn into a thrush
I will become weeds and won't be able to reach
Your eternal shores filled with Truth
Stormy downpour let me reach the Sea
To burn and become blind
Dying of old age
