The woman’s plaintive voice rises and falls like a sigh. I turn up the radio.

No hay mas vida, no hay
No hay mas lluvia, no hay…

I sit at my mirror and brush out my hair.100 strokes every night, ever since I was a little girl. Ever since I could remember. Even before you.

Llévame donde estés, llévame…

My hair hangs to my waist, the length of it like a black waterfall. Your hands once knew it well.

Cuando alguien se va, él que se queda sufre más.

I put down the brush, impatient with myself and my useless recollections. But memory is long and forgetting is never. I will your face to become a ghost, a spirit. Not this relentless image that burns its imprint behind my closed eyes.

No hay mas cielo , no hay
No hay mas viento, no hay
No hay mas hielo, no hay
No hay mas fuego, no hay…

The woman’s plaintive voice rises and falls like a sigh. I give up to memory and feel the tears course down my face, these irrevocable rivers of love and loss.

Cuando alguien se va, él que se queda sufre más…