My moon
Has seen so much
And when I sing for her, her silver rocks me
Like she does with saints
And prisoners, lovers
Crazy wanderers and tramps
That breastfeeds your light
When there are no friends, bread or money
Only poetry floats on a sincere air
And over the lonely benches
Of parks
And dies because of cold
Waiting for some morning love
Ay, my full moon, listen to this grief
A man sings
To the love he is waiting for
Ay, my full moon, listen to this grief
A man sings
To the love he wants
Ay, my full moon, listen to this grief
A man sings
To the love that is dying
Ay, my full moon.