Calm down 'cause it's time to shelve your illusions,
watch her from the balcony 'cause it's done for you
it's so sad to see you waiting for the girl
with the look of a vacant and gloomy carriage driver.
Nothing to do, you're old, the shows are over
and you're funny with your crazy young whims.
Neither girls look at you and if one them talks to you
is for asking an advice of knowledgeable in love.
What do you want, Cipriano, you have no more juice.
You carry on fifty years.
With the hair that left the head
the look is gone and it won't return.
Leave the girls to the boys,
these main courses aren't for you.
Run from the watchman, go to bed
that after, tomorrow, you go coughing.
Put away the mandolin, you're not for serenades,
it's an advice of the girl you have in the room,
drawing in your mouth the insolent pagan cross
with the perfumed tip of her carmine lipstick...
Your actions fell in the dressmaker wheel
and to the beat of time your illusion defoliates
and everyone invites you to get a rest
near the fire of memory in the shadow of a corner.