A la taverna del Mar

At the seaside tavern sits an old man
with a whitish head, letting himself go;
he has the newspaper in front because no one keeps him company.

He knows the disdain in people's eyes for his body,
he knows that time has passed without any joy,
that he can no longer give the old freshness of that beauty he had.

He's old, he knows it well; he's old, he feels it well.
He's old, he senses it every moment he cries.
He's old, and he has time, too much time to see it.
He was, he was when he was still yesterday.

And he remembers the wisdom, the liar,
like the wisdom that made him this hell
when to every desire it said, "tomorrow you'll have time still".

And he recalls the pleasure he held back,
every dawn of joy he denied himself,
every lost moment that now mocks his body worn by the years.

He's old, he knows it well; he's old, he feels it well...

At the seaside tavern sits an old man
who, from so much remembering, so much dreaming,
has fallen asleep on the table.