| The world is full of people and the days are full of infinity
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| But so small are the possibilities of a born myth
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| And to do so
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| We can try to make the other's day more beautiful
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| He chose to start on Valentine's Day
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| A rose and a message trusting chance
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| But she didn't answer and some time passed
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| In the lack of one more-than-everything, the commitment was sealed
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| With the world and se deep love is everyday
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| It makes sense that the altar is the metropolitan
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| Every day of the year in the last carriage
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| Devotee in offering a flower and a message
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| I wrote to her
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| In parallel life and vine from Santa Apolónia sitting at the window
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| And when switching at Marquês to yellow line
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| I already had one less flower in my lapel
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| And there was your note hanging
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| On alarm signal as agreed
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| To remind passersby that love is unexpected
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| And like the danger, it can be everywhere
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| The destination of the wagon was the heart
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| Amadora or the who loves was the direction of circulation
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| And each day was long with dedication
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| The routine that made his life a mission
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| And as retribution he received answers
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| Many proposals arrived at the mailbox
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| Women willing to do everything
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| People from Lisbon or from the world but who dreamed of a future inspired by
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| in the novel
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| No way
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| He just wanted one and it was not within reach
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| 365 days later
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| After 365 poems and flowers
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| Arrival at the end of the promise and farewell
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| It was the last tulip, the last missive
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| In the alarm signal on the afternoon of S. Valentine, it was read
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| «passion is the beginning, love is the end»
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| And without any hope that she would answer him
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| This last note dyed with some tears
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| It was gray in heart that the next morning
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| Everything was surprising barely out of number 20
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| There were flowers and phrases scattered on the streets
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| On poles, on traffic lights, on cars, on cranes
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| Words on the walls, petals everywhere
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| Poems and poppies and RAP on the radio
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| He was amazed on the way to the station
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| Who spent the spring with the flowers on the handrail
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| And even at the ticket office, there were other tickets
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| Of secret admirers of the meter in their «flirts»
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| He went down the stairs at the entrance to the carriage
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| Hanging on the alarm: a flower and a message
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| For the first time, he was the recipient
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| It was February 15, his birthday
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| Smelled the red rose while opening the letter
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| «passion is a window love is a door «And next to it was a half-open
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| And in the message, the letter was known
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| He peeked into the cabin and it was her!
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| In the place of the train driver waiting for you!
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| And there under the earth with the cinema kiss said
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| «passion is a flower, love is a poem»
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| And there under the earth with the cinema kiss said
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| «passion is a flower, love is a poem»
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| In Lisbon this morning he has already left, in the last coach of the blue line he has already left.
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| One more flower, one more sentence, love has already left |