Then there were the days that were counting,

then were the poems that spoke,

then were the letters that expressed

and there between the lines I have kept the secrets of every poet, who like a narcissist falls in love with his own writing.

Entonces fueron los días que contaban,

los poemas, los que hablaban,

las letras las que se expresaban,

y ahí, entre líneas, he guardado los secretos de todo poeta, quién como un narcisista se enamora de su propia letra.