Still I can read in its look Now it is late for thinking If it was of more or not to leave, Me to the blow of the events. The time so passed to divagar, and the door always was opened and my heart to its to make use, But you did not want to come back. Now he is late to repent itself, does not make me more promises, the cold adormece my hand, and the night this arriving in my look. Although everything, still I have forces to say, that I never left to love you. I suffered, I cried, I was so unhappy, Each as without you. If it does not strengthen in such a way to say, Still I can read in its look, Those words that in the distance were silent. It leaves now me to close the eyes, it does not dry this tear, it does not lull to sleep this pain, Always it arrives hour to leave, But never it is late, leaves to fall Its incontida tear.