Текст и перевод песни Cumbia Ninja - Flor Seca en Tu Cuaderno

Flor Seca en Tu Cuaderno

Deja que en tus manos la flor se marchite
Disfruta de su hermosura mientras existe
No intentes detener ni la risa ni el llanto
Es mejor sentir que te la viviste
Que se haga ceniza y se la lleve el viento
Si total nada es eterno
Es mejor la flor que se marchite en tu mano
Que por si entre hojas de tu cuaderno

Atrapo el tiempo como una flor en un cuaderno
Todo se detiene y se hace eterno
Las agujas del reloj quedan quietas y obedientes
Bajo el conjuro de no volver a verte
Pasan los años pasan los días
Se engarzan las horas en cadenas infinitas
Y los colores y los perfumes y hasta las facciones se olvidan
Y ya ningún recuerdo tiene vida
Porque transforme en cárcel a este cuaderno
Para conservarte día a día

Deja que en tus manos la flor se marchite
Disfruta de su hermosura mientras existe
No intentes detener ni la risa ni el llanto
Es mejor sentir que te la viviste
Que se haga ceniza y se la lleve el viento
Si total nada es eterno
Es mejor la flor que se marchite en tu mano
Que por si entre hojas de tu cuaderno

Entonces un día de manera casual
Impertinente al pasar las hojas te me apareces
Y se rompe el castigo de lo eterno
Y regresas como viajante del albergo a visitarme
Entre sombras y a castigar a quien te ha herido
Con el peor de los castigos el del olvido
Porque no atrape nada entre esas hojas
Queriendo a engañar la naturaleza como se me antoja
Con la falsa certeza de que no pasa nada
El árbol vivirlo enterrarlo hacerlo olvido y acá no pasó nada
Ohuo...
Acá no pasó nada
Ohuo...
Y aquí estoy con la falsa certeza de que no pasa nada
El árbol vivirlo enterrarlo hacerlo olvido y acá no pasó nada

Deja que en tus manos la flor se marchite
Disfruta de su hermosura mientras existe
No intentes detener ni la risa ni el llanto
Es mejor sentir que te la viviste
Que se haga ceniza y se la lleve el viento
Si total nada es eterno
Es mejor la flor que se marchite en tu mano
Que por si entre hojas de tu cuaderno

No cometí el error de agotarte
De vivirte entera de deshojarte
De hacerte mía de caminar todos los caminos
De beber de todas las fuentes en sequía
No me equivoque de ser desmedido
De ser generoso, imprudente y ansioso
Irrefrenable, desbocado de tu perfume intoxicado
Mantenerte a mi lado pa' no reprocharte algún día de mi cobardía
Pues pedía sin tenerte pa' que fueras solo mía

Y te tengo a un pero estas en pausa
Ahora la flor es inmortal por mi causa
No respeta ni el color ni el aroma
Se ha convertido en falsa

Tan solo queda de aquella belleza
La silueta tiesa de lo que ha sido
Y me castiga y me recrimina
Condenarla a no cumplir su destino
Me enceguece como el sol a un albino
No puedo parar de desearla
Me controla los cinco sentidos
Ay ya no quiero mirarla

Deja que en tus manos la flor se marchite
Disfruta de su hermosura mientras existe
No intentes detener ni la risa ni el llanto
Es mejor sentir que te la viviste
Que se haga ceniza y se la lleve el viento
Si total nada es eterno
Es mejor la flor que se marchite en tu mano
A que quede atrapada en un libro de recuerdos

Dried Flower in Your Notebook

Let the flower wither in your hands,
Enjoy its beauty while it exists.
Don't try to stop either laughter or tears,
It's better to feel that you lived it.
Let it turn to ashes and be carried away by the wind,
After all, nothing is eternal.
It's better for the flower to wither in your hand,
Than to be pressed between the pages of your notebook.

I trap time like a flower in a notebook,
Everything stops and becomes eternal.
The hands of the clock stand still and obedient,
Under the spell of not seeing you again.
Years pass, days pass,
Hours are strung together in infinite chains,
And colors, perfumes, even features are forgotten,
And no memory has life anymore,
Because I transformed this notebook into a prison,
To keep you day after day.

Let the flower wither in your hands,
Enjoy its beauty while it exists.
Don't try to stop either laughter or tears,
It's better to feel that you lived it.
Let it turn to ashes and be carried away by the wind,
After all, nothing is eternal.
It's better for the flower to wither in your hand,
Than to be pressed between the pages of your notebook.

Then one day, casually,
Impertinently, as I turn the pages, you appear to me,
And the punishment of eternity is broken,
And you return as a traveler from the inn to visit me,
Among shadows and to punish the one who has hurt you,
With the worst of punishments, that of oblivion,
Because I didn't trap anything between those pages,
Wanting to deceive nature as I please,
With the false certainty that nothing happens,
To live the tree, bury it, make it forgotten, and nothing happened here.
Ohuo...
Nothing happened here.
Ohuo...
And here I am with the false certainty that nothing happens,
To live the tree, bury it, make it forgotten, and nothing happened here.

Let the flower wither in your hands,
Enjoy its beauty while it exists.
Don't try to stop either laughter or tears,
It's better to feel that you lived it.
Let it turn to ashes and be carried away by the wind,
After all, nothing is eternal.
It's better for the flower to wither in your hand,
Than to be pressed between the pages of your notebook.

I didn't make the mistake of exhausting you,
Of living you entirely, of defoliating you,
Of making you mine, of walking all the paths,
Of drinking from all the springs in drought,
I wasn't wrong to be excessive,
To be generous, imprudent, and anxious,
Unstoppable, wild, intoxicated by your perfume,
To keep you by my side so as not to reproach you one day for my cowardice,
For I asked without having you, so that you would be only mine.

And I have you, but you are on pause,
Now the flower is immortal because of me,
It respects neither color nor aroma,
It has become false.

All that remains of that beauty,
Is the stiff silhouette of what it has been,
And it punishes me and reproaches me,
Condemning it to not fulfill its destiny,
It blinds me like the sun to an albino,
I can't stop wanting it,
It controls my five senses,
Oh, I don't want to look at it anymore.

Let the flower wither in your hands,
Enjoy its beauty while it exists.
Don't try to stop either laughter or tears,
It's better to feel that you lived it.
Let it turn to ashes and be carried away by the wind,
After all, nothing is eternal.
It's better for the flower to wither in your hand,
Than to be trapped in a book of memories.