There are shadows that persecute us,
pains that make us bitter,
cuts of hope
that await in our abode.
To the days and nights
in which still the reproach
It leaves us with no desire to dream.
All life goes on, although for instants
you ponds in the past,
Believing that it has continued.
We went through sighs,
then for the crying
and between so much bitterness
Only the idea remains
that everything is over.