Letters of Love is called the game
Too many months ago
that my antics do not provoke your
desire to laugh.
it is not that I am no longer interested
but the time of kisses and sweat
it’s bedtime.
it hurts to see you stirring
the box of ashes that pleasure
after if I leave.
bad and late I’m fulfilling
the word I gave you when I swore
write you a song.
a sad and envious god
I punish us
for climbing the tree together
and dock with the flower of passion
for tasting that flavor.
the water puts out the fire
and the burning of the years,
love is called the game
in which a pair of blind men
they play to hurt themselves.
and getting worse
and more and more broken
and more and more you
and more and more I
without a trace of us.
neither innocent nor guilty
hearts that the storm clears,
cannon meats.
It is not me, nor you, nor anyone else,
are the miserable fingers that give
wind my watch.
and there are no tears
that are worth to return
to get in the car
where that night in the middle of carnival
I started to undress you.
the water puts out the fire
and the burning of the years,
love is called the game
in which a pair of blind men
they play to hurt themselves.
and getting worse
and more and more broken
and more and more you
and more and more I
without a trace of us.