Maybe it's true,
Maybe it's true that you are March and April's pollen,
Maybe it's true that you are the shadow of the sun,
maybe it's true that you are a dream of god.
Maybe I am a gale,
One of those warm but gruff,
those that can mess with your hair,
but never impregnate you.
Maybe it's true,
Maybe you told me, maybe you did,
that our love, only at times
looked like it was going to live
Maybe it was born dead,
with forgotten bones,
Maybe it was only mine,
this cold fruit of sharpened longings
embodied in my chest.
So, don't speak of my love.
I ask you don't speak of my love,
Don't speak of it as if it was yours.
The thorn is yours,
the scar is mine,
the scar of all these years,
you have bitten,
you have scratched it,
don't speak of it
as if it was yours,
as if your hands had been chopped
in the wood of his coffin,
as if your mouth had gotten wet
right before you gave him bread,
as if you heart had wallowed
in the torture of his quietness,
as if your ears had bursted
in the second he stopped breathing,
so don't speak of my love,
I ask you, don't speak of my love
Don't speak of it as if it was yours,
as if it was yours...