Aceitunero

The glass of my fish tank is only dirtied by you,
when you say: Romero, how lonely you are,
it's not that bad, do me a favor, turn on the light and turn off the gas,
so the sweat stains from the coffin go away,
and the smell of singers crying,
and my moon from Jaén walks down in mourning,

Olive picker the sun,
and the singing of that jackdaw that doesn't want to nest in my throat,
olive picker I,
if one day I was a path, today I grind the mill, and roll,
olive picker the sun,
with teeth in the boots, biting the seagulls when stepping,
shaking poets to make them speak,

The bag where I keep what I have been was lost
with the calluses of the handle of the pan,
my jewels, my shroud, with everything that now I don't care about,
I was left with a rein made of your skin,
the crackling of sparks when looking,
some vine feet and rat holes for awakening,

Olive picker the sun,
lighting the fires in the chest of those who want to look at it,
olive picker I,
pockets full of quince and gallant aromas,
olive picker the sun,
dying in the mornings falling from its branch to my wheat field,
to make a fire,

Olive picker the sun,
lying down in the seas and always losing some scrap,
olive picker I,
scaring the seed with my brandy voice when rocking,
olive picker the sun,
the tree of sorrows that never lets the oak forest be seen,
I am an olive picker,

And the sacks can't keep up with the smells,
of rush chairs, of so much sweat,
of anise and pastries, of almond beds,
of juniper balls, of more hearts,
there's no room for more cats with their jingles,
with their dead nights to watch over,
there's not even room for the light