POBRE FLOR.

The flower of my hopes was killed by the cold of a cruel winter of ingratitude and pain. Poor flower! Now it is the grave and final rest of my longing and passion, for what I loved so fiercely will never return. Ah, what became of the kisses you gave me with such delight?

Oblivion covered everything with its sorrowful cloak, never to return. My first hope became the lonely grave of my last love. Empty promises from passionate lips, full of poison and curses; yet memory, engraved like an eternal shroud, covered my soul with sadness. And so, in darkness, I wander lost in thought, roaming without direction, your name inscribed like a sentence condemning my heart, which loved you, never to forget.

Because you saw the distance between my faith and your ambition, you killed my hope with the sharp dagger of fickleness. Perhaps remorse will make you weep, for I gave you my love and my trust, hoping to build a little home together.