En algún momento de mi vida, quise dejar de ser poeta;
Quizás para sentir algo diferente, o quizás para ver,
Si no es por eso que me quieres…
Quise imaginar el no escribirte más poemas,
Y que no me pudiera expresar de tan hermosas maneras.
El poeta sufre, por cada verso sin rima, por cada poema incompleto;
Quise, siempre dejar de ser yo.
Tal vez así, no sufriera, tal vez así no te quisiera…
Tal vez así temprano no muera.
Pero recordé, una vida sin amor, sin dolor…
Pero recordé, una vida sin poesía, sin color.
Si ser poeta es todo…
Si ser poeta es nada…
Si ser poeta es versos perfectos,
Si ser poeta es rimas caducadas…
Si ser poeta, es nostalgia desesperada…
Yo soy la persona perfecta…
Para quedar en la eternidad añorada.
At some point in my life, I wanted to stop being a poet;
Maybe to feel something different, or maybe to see,
If that's not why you love me...
I wanted to imagine not writing you more poems,
And that I couldn't express myself in such beautiful ways.
The poet suffers, for every verse without rhyme, for every incomplete poem;
I always wanted to stop being me.
Maybe that way, I wouldn't suffer, maybe that way I wouldn't love you...
Maybe this early I won't die.
But I remembered, a life without love, without pain...
But I remembered, a life without poetry, without color.
If being a poet is everything...
If being a poet is nothing...
If being a poet is perfect verses,
If being a poet is expired rhymes...
If being a poet is desperate nostalgia...
I am the perfect person...
To remain longed for in eternity.
