De barro

I'm looking at my life
in the glass of a puddle
and they pass by while I meditate
the lost hours,
the withered dreams.

And there are your dear eyes
in the mud mirror,
ghost of my cigarette,
reproach and oblivion,
condemnation and forgiveness.

Your distant eyes return
with the tears of that day.
To think that I put in your hands
a guilt that was mine.
To think that I did not call you
and I was glad
while you were grieving,
to think that I didn't follow you
and I laughed
when you left in tears.

And today that my life is not worth
nor this cigarette fag,
I just know that they are made of clay
contempt and rancor.

Thus measuring your sorrow
nights and nights I consume
looking to see in the smoke
of the cigarette I smoke
your serene image.
And finding you lost
between cigarette and cigar,
I know it was all made of mud,
of mud my life,
of mud my love.