La Muerte Con Anteojos

Every night with me
A dead man goes to sleep
Even though he's alive and awake;
Confused is what I tell you,
That it's a shroud, friend,
That feeds on fennel,
Then washes his eyes
To rest in the grave
And next to me collapses
This deceased man with glasses.

He escaped from the cemetery
With a crown on his head;
An unfaithful woman
Made him lose his mind,
This is no mystery to anyone,
I say it with bitterness
Even though I have goodness,
The dead man cares little
And as this life is short
He walks with such madness.

What good is comfort to him,
Such a skeleton is death;
What good is luck to me
If it causes me so much distress,
It's making me wary,
The cold has him silent
But I respond to his call
Because that will be his fate
This cunning deceased
Wanted to be mine and couldn't.

I must be very fateful
To come from San Clemente
To try in vain
The bitterness of this beehive;
All the salt is little
In the Chilean pampa
To heal the hundred thousand
Anguishes that were left
By coquettes who humiliated him
Leaving him without years.

Finally, kind listeners,
I ask you with devotion:
Let's say a prayer
For this living dead man,
He's an intelligent deceased
That's why I esteem him,
I approach his death
With hope and faith
But what to do I don't know,
And if I do, I don't dare.