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I can guess the flicker
of the lights in the distance,
marking my return.

They are the same that illuminated,
with their pale reflections,
deepest hours of pain.
And although I didn't want to come back,
you always return to your first love.

The old street where the echo said:
his life is yours, his love is yours,
under the mocking gaze of the stars
who today see me return with indifference.

To return,
with a wrinkled forehead,
the snows of time
silvered my temples.

To feel,
that life is a breath,
that twenty years is nothing,
that the wandering gaze
feverishly seeks and names you in the shadows.

To live,
with the soul clinging
to a sweet memory,
that I cry once again.

I am afraid of the encounter
with the past that returns
to confront my life.

I am afraid of the nights
that, filled with memories,
chain my dreaming.

But the traveler who flees,
sooner or later stops his journey
and although forgetfulness that destroys everything,
has killed my old illusion,
I keep hidden a humble hope,
which is all the fortune of my heart.

To return,
with a wrinkled forehead,
the snows of time
silvered my temples.

To feel,
that life is a breath,
that twenty years is nothing,
that the wandering gaze
feverishly seeks and names you in the shadows.

To live,
with the soul clinging
to a sweet memory,
that I cry once again.

To feel,
that life is a breath,
that twenty years is nothing,
that the wandering gaze
feverishly seeks and names you in the shadows.

To live,
with the soul clinging
to a sweet memory,
that I cry once again.