the cicada don't sing to me anymore, cicada let your singsong end for your song, here in the soul stabs me like a dagger knowing that when you sing you are proclaiming that you are going to your death sailor, sailor tell me if it is true that you know because i cannot distinguish if in the depth of the seas there is another color blacker than the color of my sorrows. a little dove upon flying bearing a wounded breast was about to cry and told me very afflicted i'm tired of searching for a mutual love. under the shade of a tree and to the beat of my guitar i sing this huapango happily because my life is ending and i want to die singing like the cicada dies.