It must be... That he doesn't love me... That his heart... And his soul... Prefer another. That I am not the moon... Shining in his sky... Nor the calm sea... Upon which his sailboat sails. And it must be... That I am not The woman of his dreams... With whom he shares... His rain, his umbrella... And who touches the graying temples of his hair When winter arrives. The one who smooths away... The lines on his skin... With warm kisses... And prepares his coffee... Waiting for his return. And it must be... That I am not tall enough To reach his neck Nor the arrow That points the way to his destination When his dreams become confused Nor the rose awaiting Its death in a vase Nor the heartbeats pounding Strongly against his heart. And it must be... That he doesn't love me... The way I love him, With my heart... with my soul, And with a body... That is beginning... to grow old, With the nights, with the days, And with the life I am offering him. It must be... That he doesn't love me... The way I love him... It must be, yes, it must be... it must be...
