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Maybe because my childhood
continues playing on your beach
and hidden behind the reeds
my first love sleeps,
I carry your light and your smell
wherever I go,
and piled up in your sand
I keep love, games and sorrows.
I, who on my skin have the bitter taste
of eternal crying
that a hundred towns have poured into you
from Algeciras to Istanbul
so that you can paint blue
their long winter nights.
By dint of misfortunes,
your soul It is deep and dark.
My eyes became accustomed to your red sunsets
like the bend in the road.
I am a singer, I am a liar,
I like the game and wine,
I have the soul of a sailor.
What am I going to do, if I
I was born in the Mediterranean.
And you approach, and you leave
after kissing my village.
Playing with the tide
you leave, thinking of returning.
You are like a woman
scented with tar
who is still ±pray and love
that is known and feared.
Oh, if one day for my bad luck
the grim reaper comes to look for me.
Push my boat into the sea
with an autumnal rise
and let the storm
dismantle its white wings.
And bury me without mourning
between the beach and the sky...
On the side of a mountain,
higher than the horizon.
I want to have a good view.
My body will be a path,
I will give green to the pine trees
and yellow to the genista.
Near the sea. Because I was born in the Mediterranean.