MI NOCHE
TRISTE.

Woman, you left me in the best years of my life, leaving my soul wounded and a thorn in my heart, knowing that I loved you, that you were my joy and my burning dream. There is no comfort left for me, and that is why I get drunk, to forget your love.

When I go to my little room and see it untidy, all sad and abandoned, I feel like crying; I pause for a long time, gazing at your portrait to find some comfort.

Gone from the little room are those pretty little bottles, arranged with little bows all of the same colour. The mirror is misted over and seems to have wept for the absence of your love.

At night, when I go to bed, I cannot close the door, because leaving it open lets me imagine you are returning. I always bring little biscuits to have with cups of mate, as though you were here; and if you could see the bed, how angry it becomes when it does not see us both.

The guitar in the wardrobe is still hanging there: no one sings anything to it or makes its strings vibrate. And the lamp in the room has felt your absence too, because its light has refused to illuminate my sad night.