My friend, I know you only live for him,
and he knows it too,
but he doesn't see you like I do.
I beg you - my mouth confessed after a few drinks
that it's your skin that I dream of at night
and that I go crazy with every button you undo
thinking of your hands.
He hasn't seen you tremble, hoping for a word, a gesture, a hug.
He doesn't see you like I do, sighing, with your eyes wide open, to listen to me say it.
Ah, my friend, I know it and so does he.
My friend, I don't know what to say
or what to do to see you happy.
If only I could send to the soul freely
what it is that he's missing,
to fill your pockets with wars won, renewed dreams and visions.
I want to give you the gift of a poem,
though you think I am spreading the news.
My friend, I hope that one day you hear my song,
and then you understand that I never wanted
to tell your story
because that could stir things up.
Forgive me, my friend,
it's neither intelligence, nor wisdom,
but it's my way of saying things.
Not that it's my job, but it is my language.
My friend, princess of an infinite tale,
my friend, so alone that I pretend you share your story with me,
my friend, to see if one of these days,
at the end I'll learn to speak
without having to beat around the bush,
that all this history matters to me
because you are my friend.
(Repeat)
No trates de tapar la verdad
No te resistas, no te acobardes
(¯`·¸•´¯)