Los Viejos Amantes

His hair time has turned white. His hands, nervous and wrinkled. His hair time has turned white and a little sadder his gaze. They love each other like I would like to be loved (if the customs I follow allow it), they love each other like I would like to be loved when my hopes start to dry up. And the old lovers hold hands. And they remember, like yesterday, the flowers they picked. And the old lovers hold hands. They look at each other and know everything, they don't have to say anything, not a single word. Where the old people live time stopped with the portrait hanging on the wall. Where the old people live time stopped after they got married that Sunday. The old radio and the big clock and the lace-laden tablecloth. The old radio and the big clock that still chimes lazily every hour. And the old lovers hold hands. And they cuddle every night like two little children. And the old lovers hold hands. And they ask each other 'Are you okay? Do you have any pain today?' And on St. George's Day he buys her a rose wrapped in silver paper. And on St. George's Day he buys her a rose, he has never forgotten this date... And through the streets the lovers have gotten lost. They are not afraid, they are not in a hurry. And through the streets the lovers have gotten lost with a flower and their tenderness...