Más Guapa Que Cualquiera

Her name was Solitude and she was alone
like a port battered by the waves
she collected sad butterflies,
addresses of streets that don't exist.
But she had the whim to play an exception with me
and first we went dancing
and in the middle of an 'I love you,' she forgot me.

Of Hope, she had nothing but the name
she who expected nothing from men
collected unhappy loves,
dismembered lead soldiers.
But one night she wanted to see what a heart is for
and lit a cigarette and another one,
like all hope, she vanished.

That's why when time summarizes
and dreams seem like nightmares,
that perfume of yellowed photos returns
and although I know she wasn't the prettiest in the world
I swear she was prettier, prettier than anyone.

Her name was Immaculate that whore
who cured the measles of the recruits
collected summer clouds,
wedding veils gnawed by worms.
But she wanted to fall in love like an ordinary blonde
and for me to take her off the street
from loveless kisses.

And a thousand years later when other cats disrupt
my nights of madness
I recall those moments of clumsy passions
and although I know she wasn't the prettiest in the world
I swear she was prettier, prettier than anyone.