Mary
I want so much love of you Mary,
Nothing else would be so urgent.
Love that so loved would not love
If it were my mistress, suddenly...
Not that arose, look of pity
In the eyes looking your charm
Neither by this in rare brightness
Life would bring me a new song.
But Mary did not want me...
The hours passed, treacherous.
Translated so many times a woman
What keeps her sorrows customary...?
Prostrate in your bosom want the breasts,
Remaining so only in my desire...
MARCOS LOURES
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