It's late, the morning is already here and the sun is looking for you
behind the mountain and over the river
there is no more moon nor more tender loves,
everything flew with her and to her nest
my poet's hands, my loneliness with you.
There is no more love than the one who has left,
nor more caress than that of the oblivion.
It is late, and the wind reminds him among the leaves
of the oak that he painted with its brilliance
with the lights of a bullfighter, the mother moon,
of everything he dreams and of the crickets
my poet's hands, my loneliness with you.
There is no more love than the one that has left,
nor more caress than that of oblivion.