Studying the topography of the syllables,
my brain stretches to wrap itself around your lyrics,
melodic, able to sooth, bien linda,
you name it,
'una cancion para tu corazon,'
the flowers with which you speak.

Hymns,
promptly at dusk,
kissing the sun good night,
because,
you tell me,
I am the sun,
and you are the moon,
and you are perpetually chasing me,
these words, a direct translation,
'from my soul to your ear,'
you whisper.
The flowers with which you speak.

A glance across a room,
pretending you do not know me,
a flightless flight.
So many technicalities,
my feelings do not mirror yours,
any fool could see our assymetrical hearts,
y dices, 'ven pa'ca princesa, te adoro.'
The flowers with which you speak.

Díme niño,
díme porque,
porque dices estas palabras,
romanticos y hermosas,
pero no hagas nada?
Por falta de accion,
I struggle with myself,
to not fall prey to,
the flowers with which you speak.