Aquellas Pequeñas Cosas
Joan Manuel Serrat
Those Little Things
One believes
That time and absence killed us
But its train
Sold round-trip tickets
They are those little things
That a time of roses left us
In a corner, on a paper
Or in a drawer
Like a thief
They lurk behind the door
They have you at their mercy
Like dead leaves
That the wind drags here or there
That smile sadly at you
And make us
Cry when no one sees us
