When evening falls, you will see him leave
dragging the heat from home.
He will cut a flower, kiss his wife,
follow the trail of a shooting star.
And on the street you will see him opening the flower of his secret.
And he will start to dream.
Perhaps he will go to the billiard hall to take a look at men and their little postures.
Perhaps he will make up a date
with an Adonis just for him.
No man ever loved him.
To no-one he confessed his passion and his little games,
the secret desire.
There were no love letters,
no pride day.
Nobody will give him back his lost Summers.
And Cernuda1 sees him sigh sadly from Mount Parnassus.
Saint Sebastian shot with arrows prays for your sins,
cries for you, doesn't forget
him who suffers in silence,
his lost sheep.
They look at the sky and ask for a wish:
with you the most beautiful night.
Impossible love stories
that write in songs
the trace of a star.
Letters that are never sent.
Bottles that shine
in the sea of oblivion.
Don't ever stop looking for me,
the most cowardly excuse
is to blame fate,
is to blame fate.
When she goes out from class she will meet him again
on the wild side, behind hash smoke.
He, sweet tough guy. He, local pirate.
She, sweet doll. She, responsible and formal.
He doesn't listen to the flap of her wings when passing close by.
Poor Snow White,
our prince prefers the stepmother,
the evil character from the tale.
He will be the apple
where poison sleeps.
She will dream of a verse he will never hear.
He won't climb up her braids on a Winter night.
She will dream of a journey and there will be no farewells.
Nor love songs, or Capulets and Montagues.
They will grow up and in the foam of time
their dreams will vanish.
Not even a memory will remain,
nor a lament in the night.
Perhaps just a little wound
that will be washed away by oblivion
or the water from the clepsydra.
They look at the sky and ask for a wish:
with you the most beautiful night.
Impossible love stories
that write in songs
the trace of a star.
Letters that are never sent.
Bottles that shine
in the sea of oblivion.
Don't ever stop looking for me,
the most cowardly excuse
is to blame fate,
is to blame fate.
Walking south, taking the highway,
they've opened a pub, very close to the village,
where naked houris arrived from a hundred worlds
celebrate each night February the 14th.
And in the village a man sighs if the neon lights turn on.
No Eve had this Adam,
there was never a back seat of a car,
or caresses, or perfumed letters,
no dates in the park.
No girls from Plan2.
When night falls you will see him enter the place
like every Sunday, tidy and on time.
He will find her at the bar, like a dolphin aground
that has lost its star, expelled one day from the sea.
She listens and he, in love, reveals his fears.
Amongst noise, champagne glasses
and other dolphins claiming their ransom
to lost castaways
he dreams of kidnapping his lover.
They look at the sky and ask for a wish:
with you the most beautiful night.
Impossible love stories
that write in songs
the trace of a star.
Letters that are never sent.
Bottles that shine
in the sea of oblivion.
Don't ever stop looking for me,
the most cowardly excuse
is to blame fate,
is to blame fate.
