My belle is made up of art, that is, failures, shitty life’s growth,
she is her own reason and needs no excuses to be.
My belle could reject me with all her heart, but she takes me blindly,
she is a long shot into the darkest night.
My belle abandons me, leaves me to myself,
always free to go away and embrace my loneliness.
My belle doesn’t drink wine to appease her hell,
she gulps down life like pure vodka.
My belle awaits in a place of shadows, herself the light,
she puts her apron on when she is not my belle.
My belle has some pounds on that she doesn’t need,
she gets rid of them for me, my belle.
My belle will never come, I need to go,
knocking down other belles on the way.
Ans she is not for the quality of her beauty,
but for the beauty of her qualities,
by Juan M.S.