Me Tropecé Contigo

I stumbled upon you in the spring,
On a red and hazy April night,
My blood turned into a vine,
Under the lamp, the light from that corner.

You gave me the softness of your wax,
And I gave you the salt from my shore,
And we sailed together without a flag,
Across the sea of the rose and the thorn.

And then to die,
To make two rivers without oleanders,
Dark and empty for the clumsy mouths of the crowd.

But before God, two moons,
Two swords, two dyes,
Two mouths intertwined,
And two arches of love from the same bridge.

You gave me the softness of your wax,
And I gave you the salt from my shore,
And we sailed together without a flag,
Across the sea of the rose and the thorn.

And then to die,
To make two rivers without oleanders,
Dark and empty for the clumsy mouths of the crowd.

But before God, two moons,
Two swords, two dyes,
Two mouths intertwined,
And two arches of love from the same bridge.