Death came visiting.
She said, I have something to tell you.
But I told her, sweet death, I will not listen.
Oh, but I have something to tell you--
Sweet, sweet death,
I will not listen.
I don't want to take leave of my life.
Oh, my love, sooner or later, everyone lets themselves be loved.
And the wind passed over the river
shaking the tresses of the trees.
Daughter, daughter, daughter of mine--
they sang, lulling me with their soft moans, sooner or later,
everyone surrenders to the charms of the dame of the night,
the dame of the obsidian dream.
Lorena Lobita Wolfman © 2009-2010