| As if emerging from the depths of the ages, motionless in its journey
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| Mosaic of blood and gold, Venice set the scene.
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| Everything is for the eye in this theatre, the black waters and the alabaster walls
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| Illusion, lights and fountains. |
| everything is there for the staging.
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| In the horsehair of the setting sun, the palaces and the seagulls
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| Compete in poetry to open the ball of the night.
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| the hour when the shadows slip, it still floats in the alleys
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| The strange and cruel atmosphere of Lucrce and the Medici.
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| But already the sun is rising, the curtain opens on the dream
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| And that's where the city explodes with purple, green and pink.
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| Under the masks of the farandoles, in the sliding of the gondolas
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| The symphony of muslins, guitars and mandolins.
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| It's the crowd that takes you randomly from bridges and gates
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| Drunk with jubilation and madness, my God, Venice is pretty.
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| Under the sky of the flowered balconies where we see the signs turning
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| And in the disorder that reigns, Venice then has genius.
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| Then the painting resumes its place, little by little, the madness fades away.
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| Just a whiff of fanfare, a few laughs, a stray step.
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| You can hear the pontoons moaning, it's winter at the Bridge of Sighs.
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| A boat is leaving for the islands, the hours are ticking away at the Campanile.
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| Venice, nothing has changed, even the centuries have left
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| From lzardes to house walls, time has never been right
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| Neither carnival pomp, nor stones or Bacchanals
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| From Vrosne or Titian, nor chandeliers in ancient crystal
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| And already the sun of the dream, over Venice, rises again.
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| again, the facades explode in purple, green and pink.
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| Under the masks of the farandoles, in the sliding of the gondolas
|
| The symphony of muslins, guitars and mandolins.
|
| It's the crowd that takes you randomly from bridges and gates
|
| Drunk with jubilation and madness, my God, how pretty Venice is.
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| Under the sky of the flowered balconies where we see the signs turning
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| And in the disorder that reigns, it's hell or paradise
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| Who takes you to the end of the night, Venice then has genius. |