Because no one will tell me his dreams,
because everything's urgent and nothing is finished,
because whatever you can tell me is already in the paper,
because we'll see each other later, I haven't time now.
Alone, I invent a friend to talk to,
to remember memories, old stories,
to find again what is lost in the city
among neon lights, traffic and fog.
Today I walk trying to remember
on the impassive blackish asphalt;
the wish for roots, far more present
than the nostalgia of obscure origin.
The soft green of pines licked with rain,
the right light that makes me feel the hours,
the voice of the wind, oh forgotten music,
the salty taste of life and the sea.
Because no one will tell me his dreams,
because everything's urgent and nothing is finished,
because whatever you can tell me is already in the paper,
because we'll see each other later, I haven't time now.
Alone, I invent a friend to talk to,
to remember memories, old stories,
to find again what is lost in the city
among neon lights, traffic and fog.
I know someone could tell me that I don't adapt,
that it's hard for me to lose my dialect,
that I don't try at all to mix,
that I don't want to forget I'm from the country.
That I keep on idealising my childhood,
which happens to many people in their thirties,
that all this has no importance,
that the world is made up of all sorts of people.
Because no one will tell me his dreams,
today I walk trying to remember:
the soft green of pines licked with rain,
alone, I invent a friend to talk to.
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