He comes home late with the mist of the sea,
he comes, wound tight with rage.
He enters very slowly, so as not to disturb
the most beautiful sleep there is.
She comes out of the cloud
Gives a lunar yawn
Barefoot and disheveled, she runs...
runs into his arms as no one else would
ever... ever... ever...
And María tells him yes,
blushingly tells him yes
and hides herself in his arms
and he answers that everything will be all right,
that the flowers will grow again
where we are now crying.
The dawn falls as she stands,
Shining with the proper spark,
At once face of ambush and open sky,
He thinks that she is pretty...
Together and forgotten by sleep they go,
telling riddles
until the flower closes with him...
closes with him.
And María tells him yes,
blushingly tells him yes
and hides herself in his arms
and he answers that everything will be all right,
that the flowers will grow again
where we are now crying.
And winter came, and he left
and they say that, without him, María
doesn't look at herself in pools of water.
Every March 13th at 10
she hopes to see him again,
but he has gone.
He comes home late with the mist of the sea,
he comes, wound tight with rage.
He enters very slowly, so as not to hijack
the most beautiful sleep there is.
She comes out of the cloud
Gives a lunar yawn
Barefoot and disheveled, she runs...
runs into his arms as no one else will
ever... ever... ever...