I would like to be able to draw a faint smile on marble; to access her secrets, corrupting his purity. But I only find stone that looks like marble (and I think it's marble).
-respite, inaccesible, unattainable.
Because, sometimes, between my desperate attempts to make the deaf hear and to make the blind see, I go insane, crazy, alienated and abandoned to my fate. What will be of me? It does not matter anymore, I guess, because in the end we always end up talking about you, us, the ones on the other side, those you did not want, the demons you've tried to bury on the ground
-because of you, for you, by you.
I would like to re-remedy what it was started, to rebuild each piece of our foundations and give out all the lost, but how can I deceive time? How can I tell him that what have been years for you have been lives for me? Because, if you did not know, every day was a century, every century is the calendar in which you have not been with me.
-you have thrown naked into oblivion.
Because, sometimes, I did not need a greeting to remind myself that I have not died yet; it is that I only haven't been with you. Irremediably, in the end, we are always pathetic; even marble will die someday
-it's a pity that my love does not.
(Spanish Translation)
Quisiera poder delinear una tenue sonrisa sobre mármol; acceder a sus secretos, corromper su pureza. Mas me encuentro sólo con piedra que parece y creo es mármol
—ríspido, inaccesible, inalcanzable.
Porque, a veces, entre mis intentos desesperados por hacer oír a los sordos y ver a los ciegos, quedo loco, demente, alienado y abandonado a mi suerte. ¿Qué será de mí? Ya no importa supongo, pues al final siempre terminamos hablando de ti, nosotros, los del otro lado, los que no quisiste, los demonios que has intentado enterrar
—por ti, por ti, por ti.
Quisiera volver a remediar lo empezado, a reconstruir cada pieza de nuestros cimientos y repartir cabal lo perdido, pero ¿cómo engaño al tiempo? ¿Cómo decirle que lo que para ti han sido años para mí han sido vidas? Porque, si no lo sabías, cada día era un siglo, cada siglo representa el calendario en el cual no has estado conmigo
—me has arrojado sin ropajes al olvido.
Porque, a veces, no hacía mayor falta un saludo para recordarme que no he muerto, sólo que no he estado contigo. Irremediablemente, al final, siempre somos patéticos; aún el mármol morirá algún día
—lástima que mi amor no.