and smiled, and knew with your smile so taken twenty years,
as pie wearing a sweater over a pair of jeans;
as you feel the urge to live
that erupts day and does not explain why:
rocked a thought or a love that is born and you do not know what it is.
long days between yesterday and tomorrow, strange days,
all day wondering what it was, see each other every night, every night
go on to get my funny with that ram Eastern
every night there, a dance step, up the stairs
and hear your footsteps coming, the ticking of your good humor,
when you opened the door a smile every time I entered the heart.
Then down at the bar where we meet, our alcove
was so able to speak, watching us play,
among friends who laugh and play around the tables full of wine,
religion of late and wait for morning roll;
and one night you left to take you away, just the two of us in the fog and sentinel
the sleeping city was never so beautiful.
life was easy then every hour,
guitars and fleeting flashes of stories, loves birds of prey,
and every night a fantasy come up as good children new era,
every night seemed to call the life in a test. But
amazed and happy that we found out he was born something deeper,
seemed to have found the secret key of the world.
It was not easy taking care of yourself, stay together
or thinking of having a future and stay away;
both to figure out: "Who is it?" In everything, a constant thought, a memory
shiny and hard as a diamond
and leave each step lead us away from emotion not full, it read:
reunion was like being reborn again.
But every story has the same illusion, its conclusion,
and sin was to believe a special ordinary story.
Now time will wear and it crushes every passing day running
seems ironic that penetrate and we look mocking.
And indeed those heroes are no longer prepared to deal with each undertaking;
are like two leaves clinging to a branch on hold.
"The Triangle Tingles and plays the trumpet slow" ...
Farewell, forget and forgive me if I took away a little summer
with something as fragile as the stories go:
perhaps once could move you, but now I think it is useless, because
every time you cry and you laugh not cry and do not laugh with me ...
as pie wearing a sweater over a pair of jeans;
as you feel the urge to live
that erupts day and does not explain why:
rocked a thought or a love that is born and you do not know what it is.
long days between yesterday and tomorrow, strange days,
all day wondering what it was, see each other every night, every night
go on to get my funny with that ram Eastern
every night there, a dance step, up the stairs
and hear your footsteps coming, the ticking of your good humor,
when you opened the door a smile every time I entered the heart.
Then down at the bar where we meet, our alcove
was so able to speak, watching us play,
among friends who laugh and play around the tables full of wine,
religion of late and wait for morning roll;
and one night you left to take you away, just the two of us in the fog and sentinel
the sleeping city was never so beautiful.
life was easy then every hour,
guitars and fleeting flashes of stories, loves birds of prey,
and every night a fantasy come up as good children new era,
every night seemed to call the life in a test. But
amazed and happy that we found out he was born something deeper,
seemed to have found the secret key of the world.
It was not easy taking care of yourself, stay together
or thinking of having a future and stay away;
both to figure out: "Who is it?" In everything, a constant thought, a memory
shiny and hard as a diamond
and leave each step lead us away from emotion not full, it read:
reunion was like being reborn again.
But every story has the same illusion, its conclusion,
and sin was to believe a special ordinary story.
Now time will wear and it crushes every passing day running
seems ironic that penetrate and we look mocking.
And indeed those heroes are no longer prepared to deal with each undertaking;
are like two leaves clinging to a branch on hold.
"The Triangle Tingles and plays the trumpet slow" ...
Farewell, forget and forgive me if I took away a little summer
with something as fragile as the stories go:
perhaps once could move you, but now I think it is useless, because
every time you cry and you laugh not cry and do not laugh with me ...
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