Malva

He was never happy, he never spoke of love
her poor gray life without light or flower.
Behind the window Malvaloca dreams the same,
imprisoned in the chimera of waiting.
Pale her complexion perhaps withered away
behind the apron of her childhood.
And in a moonlight
none matched her pallor.

Malva... the dawn is already rising
with a late night tango.
Malva... your red mouth
Malvaloca has painted you.
Sad you have already fallen asleep
on the poor street.
Mauve of moon and dawn,
faded on the balcony.

Plant without love, pain of being without being,
looked for a desire that did not come.
Shy and happy, Malvaloca, gray elf,
plays in the mist of the corner.
She turns in the roll of a whistle that perhaps
returns through the streets of her childhood.
And in a moonlight
what moon will match its pallor!