La Rosa Del Adiós
Joan Manuel Serrat
The Rose of Goodbye
The long winter night
lit up when by hand
the rosebush made a rose
redder than blood.
Last breath of summer.
Token of prosperity.
Bird that fell from the nest.
Celebrate with a ray of sun
under the shelter of a cypress;
are you late or too early,
wonderful misunderstanding?
Born against the current
defying the frosts
and facing the wind.
Like a paper flower
you won't hear the buzzing
of bees sucking you
nor spread any perfume.
The sun will never gift you
the dream of a nap
or the July sunsets.
But before the impatient hands of winter
suffocate you,
the evening looks at you and rejoices,
stops and is surprised
with a small and brief
-like the flower of your lips-
red rose of goodbye.
