La Niña de Guatemala

(Spoken)
I want to tell this story in bloom under the shadow of a wing,
the girl from Guatemala, the one who died of love.
Lily bouquets adorned her, with edges of mignonette,
and we buried her in jasmine in a silk box.

She gave the forgetful one a scented pillow,
he returned, returned married, she died of love.
Bishops and ambassadors carried her on their shoulders,
the people followed behind, all laden with flowers.
Oh...

She went out to the lookout to see him again,
he returned with his wife, she died of love.
Her forehead, the forehead I loved the most in life,
was like hot bronze at the farewell kiss.

She went into the river in the afternoon, the doctor pulled her out dead,
they say she died of cold, I know she died of love.
In the icy vault, they placed her on two benches,
I kissed her slender hand, I kissed her white shoes.

Quietly at dusk, the gravedigger called me,
I have never seen again the one who died of love.
Oh...