| There will come a day when I become weaker
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| When the words of their own songs lose weight for the author
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| And the sun will slowly smear the eaves, -
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| Its sunset is beautiful, but it's just a metaphor
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| I will lower my eyes to the old floor
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| And I will hug the shelves of dusty books
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| I will move the table to the battery
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| And when I get up, I won't forget how I ran in them!
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| My character was young yesterday
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| And the wind in the fields ruffled his grain of hair
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| He only opened this city for the heart
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| And I didn’t think much about love that didn’t come true ...
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| But here he is tired, aged in appearance, -
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| He faithfully knits a knot of days, the anguish of which is empty
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| In the gut not believing either the devil or white halos
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| Your head will hang on the bush of an empty apartment...
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| "Don't go!" - I hear a voice
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| There, across the river, my children in flowers stretch their palms...
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| So that cats do not cry in the rain
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| So that the mirrors do not lie to the eyes, -
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| There comes a day you don't expect
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| And about which he did not say anything to anyone
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| It's good here, under the ceiling
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| And in the panorama you can see the old courtyard and our balcony
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| Hardly just me, dutifully
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| So silently and beautifully I deprive my throat of air ...
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| Float above me clouds!
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| I hug my neck with my hands
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| Invisible lights far
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| Calls me to you
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| "Don't go!" - I hear a voice
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| There, across the river, my children in flowers stretch their palms...
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| Don't leave...
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| "Don't go!" - I hear a voice
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| There, across the river, my children in flowers stretch their palms... |