the cicada
don‘t sing to me anymore, cicada
let your singsong end
for your song, here in the soul
stabs me like a dagger
knowing that when you sing
you are proclaiming that you are
going to your death
sailor, sailor
tell me if it is true that you know
because i cannot distinguish
if in the depth of the seas
there is another color blacker
than the color of my sorrows.
a little dove upon flying
bearing a wounded breast
was about to cry
and told me very afflicted
i‘m tired of searching for
a mutual love.
under the shade of a tree
and to the beat of my guitar
i sing this huapango happily
because my life is ending
and i want to die singing
like the cicada dies..