He was a pigeon, pigeon, pigeon
That I found one morning under an old willow;
He whispered in my ear three things and a poem
So that I sing it to you, and I tell you this:
I am the pigeon, pigeon, pigeon
That will not be auctioned for seven coins,
That has his creed, that has his poem;
That doesn't want another owner than his own flight
I have my roof in a tree of kisses,
With flowers, words and love in the middle;
I eat and drink in it and I wait for the goldfinch
That comes to my branches with a new song.
He doesn't interfere with me and I don't bother him,
He doesn't copy my song, he has his own tone;
We both soar in a flight of dreams,
Each at his own height, each at his own time.
I am the pigeon that has a treasure,
I am going to tell you what I made it up of:
My voice and my song, which I offer you;
If you don't change it, here it is.
I am the pigeon that has a treasure,
I am going to tell you what I made it up of:
My voice and my song, which I offer you;
If you don't change it, here it is.