The magic of my verses ends, if your magic eyes do not look at me, there is no longer the intention to be a poet, if your feet next to mine do not walk.
Tell me how I will write about your loves, if you hide
and you deny me your caresses, if I no longer have the burning of your passions, and you take away the pleasure of your delights.
The punishment of not seeing you shatters me, and my letters no longer find your way, as your do not find mine
the last rose withers in my garden, if my name is not written in your destiny.
I no longer want to continue being a poet, if the muse that inspires me has deserted
I no longer know how to take off this arrow, that has been stuck in my chest with your oblivion.
And there it will remain.