Ya Nada Es Lo Que Era

Nothing is what it used to be,
new landscapes, new frontiers,
delimiting my gestures, my customs.

Another light will illuminate my verses,
other dead will fill my solitudes,
other happiness will fill my celebrations,
other doubts my certainties.

Nothing is what it used to be.

I will have to get used
to this cold loneliness
like an old man with numbered days to his illness.

And to name you or wait for you in a cafe,
and suffer another beginning,
and return to the places where you have abandoned me,
and be murdered
where I loved you.

All that remains for me now
is the empty sorrow
of the traveler who returns.
I am so lost,
I am the murderer
of so many springs.

Nothing is what it used to be.

Nothing is what it used to be,
I will walk the sidewalks
looking for a light that reminds me of you.

Who will accompany me now to Alphaville?
Who will scar my wounds?
Who will uncover my lies?
Who will facilitate my escape?

And it's because nothing is what it used to be.

All that remains for me now
is the empty sorrow
of the traveler who returns.
I am so lost,
I am the murderer
of so many springs.

Nothing is what it used to be.
Nothing is what it used to be.