I’m contemplating my life
on the crystal of a little puddle
and while I meditate
the lost hours pass by,
the wilted dreams.

And your dear eyes are there,
on that mirror of mud,
a ghost of my cigarette,
reproach and forgetting,
condemnation and forgiveness.

Your distant eyes return
with the tears of that day.
Just to think that I put in your hands
a guilt that was mine.
To think that I didn’t call you
and was happy
while you were suffering.
To think that I didn’t follow you
and laughed
when you left crying.

And today that my life
is not even worth this cigarette butt,
only now do I know
that contempt and rancor are made of mud.

Like that, pondering your grief
I go through nights and nights,
seeking to see in the smoke
of the fag I smoke[2]
your serene picture.
And when I find you, lost
between cigarette and cigarette,
I know it’s all been made of mud,
of mud my life,
of mud my love.