When we are young
Of divine temples
For our love
Everything is a path of roses.
It doesn’t matter that our parents
Show us their back
With the wounds of Life.
Nor do we see the bleeding wounds
That pierce the heart
From our sister
That she has an eleven-month-old boy
From a fifteen-year-old love
And that the boyfriend left her.
It does not matter to step on the water
Or the wet litter
All the scenery we see
It is an impressionist painting
With a bed, the most beautiful
To give life and joy
To our Passion.
Without us realizing
We do not see that, in the distance
Of such a beautiful picture
Lie the heartache
And a great heartbreak
If the hypocritical boyfriend or girlfriend
That she has touched us
He becomes an outrageous husband
Or unfaithful wife
And these three things are fulfilled
Who else is worse:
Losing honor, life and heart.