I must tell you,
woman, woman, I must tell you
woman, woman, you make me die
of love, and you are like the moon
inside my night.
And while the soup cooks,
the radio plays a sweet song,
a song that I like to
whisper in your arms.
I have to tell you,
woman, woman, I must tell you
woman, woman, you make me die
of love, and you are like the moon
inside my night.
And the sweet little song rushes in
the mandolin plays and shines
an expert voice sings
whispered in your arms.
I have to tell you,
pages, pages (of things) I have to tell you.
My soup is over cooked,
and we are hungry
of something else, we ...