Condena translates to "sentence" or "condemnation," often used in a legal context. However, in this song, it takes on a more metaphorical and emotional meaning.
The artist uses it to describe the feeling of being trapped in a painful situation after a heartbreak, singing "Y ahora vivo preso en esta condena" (And now I live imprisoned in this condemnation). It powerfully conveys the idea of being sentenced to a life of suffering due to a past relationship, making it a compelling and dramatic word choice.
Bachata has a long tradition of men singing about being wrecked, and Dalvin La Melodia reaches for the strangest image in the genre to do it: "Pero tu corazón tenía doble hotel" (But your heart had a double hotel). It is a blunt way of saying she was running two lives, and it lands harder than anything more careful would. He is not claiming he was ambushed, either. The song opens with him admitting he knew exactly what she was, "Juré que eras mía / Aunque eras ajena" (I swore you were mine / Even though you belonged to someone else), and then spends the rest of its length adding up what that cost him.
The title line is the best thing here. "Me dejaste roto, sin alma y sin bandera" (You left me broken, soul-less and without a flag) borrows the language of a beaten country, a man with nothing left inside him and nothing left to wave. What follows is domestic rather than operatic: "Tu fantasma duerme en el lado de mi cama" (Your ghost sleeps on the side of my bed), her perfume still loose in the wind. Then the guitar takes over and he calls out "Suénala, Mikey, suénala" (Play it, Mikey, play it), which is about as bachata as a record can get.