Marta (Versão Italiana)

The sound of the sea at dawn and a beach full of seaweed drying in the sun.
The salty taste of the rocks and the calm flight of the few seagulls coming into the port.
The boats returning in the morning, the nets sleeping on the dock and those old cobblestone streets.
The humble little church and through the fog, lost and distant, the city.
They talk to me about Marta...
The white houses of the village and the old man singing ballads while selling fish,
and the woman who half-heartedly moves the wool between her hands. (Who knows what she's weaving).
The castle, the little island, the cave, the lighthouse, and the chapel,
and friends from another time and the clock that doesn’t tick,
and these kids who found their street in the sand.
They talk to me about Marta...
The empty hours that pass and the road that takes me home after so much walking.
Every piece of furniture and every book, every corner where we lived moments like no one else knows.
My hands and my lips that live eagerly off her taste and can’t forget.
The long moonless nights, the waves, and each of the lights that are in the sea.
They talk to me about Marta...