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It is not the fault of the poet in love
The fiery lyrics that he captures.
The overflowing passion of each verse,
The restlessness that his heart inflames.
He only pours in burning ink
The desire that burns his soul.
He writes what he unveils to him,
The fire that his entrails harbour.
If anyone is guilty of such passion,
Of loving fantasies and delusions,
Of the love that her breast overflows,
Of the naked surrender of his essence.
If his lyrics not only stir the breast
But moisten the lips...
The guilty one will always be the muse,
Instigator of such a feeling.
She who provokes the ardent longing
That the poet pours with devotion.
She enjoys being the inciter
Of those lines that burn in adoration.