SOLEDAD.

I do not want anyone to tell me that from your sweet life you have already torn me away. My heart asks for a lie so it can wait for your impossible call. I do not want anyone to imagine how bitter and deep my eternal loneliness is; in my long night the minute grinds the nightmare of its slow tick-tock.

In the sorrowful shadow of my room, as I await her footsteps that perhaps will never return, sometimes I think they stop in their tracks, not daring then to enter. But there is no one, and she does not come; it is a ghost my longing creates. And as it fades, its vision leaves behind ashes in my heart.

On the silver face of the clock, the dying hours refuse to pass. There is a procession of strange figures that gaze at me with mocking eyes. It is an endless caravan that sinks into oblivion with its spectral grimace; with it goes your mouth that once was mine; all I have left is the anguish of my suffering.