Aquellas Pequeñas Cosas (part. Joan Manuel Serrat)

One believes
That time and absence killed them
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 (no one sees us)