The sun can not be compared to

the light shining from your eyes,

the sweet honey from your voice.

Oh, how the birds enjoyed your singing.

Hands, ever so crafting refuge,

a mighty ark,

a lighthouse.

Carving out a home within your chest, 

tending to the garden living by the tips of your fingers.

The one melody I grew to understand came

from your morning whistling, 

from your contagious laughter,

from your Sunday whispering, 

from mi reina, mi alma, mi corazon.

You would welcome easy nights into our palms,

bring down the stars for us,

hang the moon by the edge of our beds,

blessed with good dreams and faith for the life after you.