If today you are going to reproach I prepare myself,
I will sit down to mourn for the lost,
that faint murmur now scattered
it is going to be propagated without further ado.
And your silence that for me is so expensive,
so passionate love motive,
it will be like a rosebush that flowered
he will give away his roses to the cheek.
Close your lips, dream of tonight,
where the moon itself is a waste
of passionate white that provokes us.
Talk like that, why? With what criteria?
if in your silence this mystery is born,
this lost love.