She was softer than the water,
than the soft water,
she was fresher than the river,
orange tree in bloom…
And in that summer street,
lost street,
she left a piece of life
and she left…

First you learn to suffer,
then to love, then to leave,
and finally to walk without thinking…
Scent of orange blossoms,
empty promises of love
that escaped in the wind…
After, does it matter the afterwards?
All my life is the yesterday
that stops me in the past,
eternal and ancient youth
that has left me unnerved
like a bird in the dark.

What have my hands done to her?
What have they done to her
to leave me in the chest
so much pain?
Pain of an old grove,
street corner song
with a slice of life,
orange tree in bloom…

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