HUNDRED YEARS

One hundred years of solitude, are nothing,
When you live life without trouble,
When I exhaust all their fantasies.
In one summer night,
Where love went through life,
One Hundred Years of Solitude is not death,
If you have lived a life of lust,
From balconies, porches,
Where the dark plugs your feelings,
And there were only rumors.
One hundred years of solitude did not feel,
Because in the middle stay perfume,
From a rose in spring,
And let the past outbreaks,
On the threshold of the house that you loved,
One Hundred Years of Solitude alone is a century
Where did you leave your footprints.

JUAN CARLOS VILLANUEVA