Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life
Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?