| On cold, dark evenings
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| At the fire in the fireplace
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| How many stories, how many fairy tales
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| My grandfather used to say
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| The most beautiful I remember
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| It is the story of a love
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| Of a passionate love
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| How happy did not end
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| And the heart of a poet
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| At this point he softened
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| What the story of those times
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| He put it to music like this:
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| She had a saffron collar
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| And the cyclamen-colored tailcoat
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| She came on foot from Lodi to Milan
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| To meet the beautiful Gigogin
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| Strolling down the street
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| She sang to her: «My sweet love
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| Gigogin, my hope
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| With your kisses you steal my heart "
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| And the story continues: he was sent as a soldier to Piedmont, and every morning there
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| he sent a flower on the water of a canal that passed through Milan.
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| Until one day ...
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| Him, known that the return
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| He was finally close
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| Above the water an orange blossom
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| She laid down one fine morning
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| You, seeing and guessing
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| The reason for that flower
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| To pick it up she pushed
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| So much so that she fell
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| Above the water, with that flower
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| Towards the sea she went away
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| And he too, for the pain
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| He did not return from Piedmont
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| He had a saffron collar
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| And the cyclamen-colored tailcoat
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| He came on foot from Lodi to Milan
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| To meet the beautiful Gigogin
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| She waited for him in the street
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| Among the stars clutching a flower
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| And in a dream of poetry
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| They found themselves united again
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| Narrow the leaf, wide the way; |
| have your say, because we said ...
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| a saffron-colored collar
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| The story of a love |