Ay de Mí

The tired sun of me
one day abandoned me
without speaking, without saying.
Woe is me.

The moon accompanied me
silent in my walk
without speaking, without saying.
Woe is me.

Your languor is me,
your wide window,
the air of your skin,
your shadow as you walk.

There is no other solution,
my world is old
and my hands are already
made of hard flint.

I may perhaps live,
I may perhaps cry,
but not caress
the truth of your embrace.
Woe is me.

I may perhaps sing,
I may perhaps laugh,
but not stop my reason
that is falling apart for you.

Over all your skin
I want to make love,
in your bed of skin
I want to lay my corner.

I don't want the awakening
of opening a fist and seeing
that in the palm remained
only salt, only salt,
only salt.