This love song is not for you. I could be your guitar but I'm not wood, see, the nails are blue when I sleep and almost dawn. I no longer want to hear: the roosters only remind me of your voice, the neurasthenia of your day, my doubts. Now that I think, this sheet is a farewell, even if it does not have your name, take what belongs to you. This leaf is a spark opening fire, it's a safe penalty: cornered. ¿Why do not I take off? ¿Why does this sick body have burning thighs? My song is a sweetness alone, it is an inconsolable poem, it is the malignancy rooted in the neglect of days. This dew, not what comes out of my fingers enchants, ¿why the sigh has its own life?