There are those who measure and know how to give
the right step, the kind hand,
the kiss that burns, love and silence.
They are those who at the end of the road
They arrive unharmed, with their heads held high,
the moon on the back,
and the whole heart.

And there are others,
neither better nor more sincere,
how clumsy, careless, almost sinister,
we don't know how far or when
the right step, the hand and the kiss,
the ember, love and silence.

We are the ones who arrive at the last day
broken unstitched uneven,
defeated one and another by the shadow
blue of birds, with their mouths made of pebbles,
and the heart to windward.

We are not better or more honest,
but we don't forget that on the other side of the street
Death in Love happens, and maybe
it's worth having been sloppy,
poor guys who embraced love
like a totem made of blood and thorns.

When we reach the other side of the shore
There will be a mirror and a comb,
and while Death grooms us,
we will be proud to have in front
the mark of the unlucky
and the heart turned to ashes.