Tenía años sin mi corazón,
y cuando lo tuve de nuevo en mi mano;
me di cuenta, de cuanto te había amado…
y duele, y dolía el espacio que había quedado inerte.
Y estaba en vida, en la muerte y aun así sonreía…
y aun así, estudiando y escribiendo…
sabiendo que el amor es ciego,
y que la poesía envenena…
y envenena si la musa es eterna,
O si el poeta no muere en alba temprana.
Entonces, las veces que quería sentir sin mi corazón,
seguro la poesía me recordaba, y yo ignoraba,
que mi corazón andaba en otra morada;
una fría, oscura y añorada…
Esa morada, que fuiste tú, mi maldita musa soñada.
I had years without my heart,
and when I had it again in my hand;
I realized how much I had loved you...
and it hurts, and the space that had remained inert hurt.
And he was in life, in death and still he smiled...
and still, studying and writing…
knowing that love is blind,
and that poetry poisons...
and poisons if the muse is eternal,
Or if the poet does not die in early dawn.
So the times I wanted to feel without my heart,
surely the poetry reminded me, and I ignored,
that my heart walked in another abode;
a cold, dark and missed...
That abode, which was you, my damn dream muse.
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