When your hair touches your face, I am jealous of it.
When you talk of someone, I am jealous of your tongue.
When your hair touches your face, I am jealous of it.
When you talk of someone, I am jealous of your tongue.
I am jealous of you, jealous from my heart*
What sort of love is this, o God, I will die from my sorrow
I am jealous of you, jealous from my heart
What sort of love is this, o God, I will die from my sorrow
Do not attach the rose to your chest, I will be jealous of it.
I will be jealous of your waist from the belt that embraces you
Your hand drives me crazy, wanders all around you
I will be jealous of your hand as it caresses your skin
I am jealous of you, jealous from my heart
What sort of love is this, o God, I will die from my sorrow
I am jealous of you, jealous from my heart
What sort of love is this, o God, I will die from my sorrow