He's a good guy, my old man,
he goes alone and waiting,
his sadness is long
because of so much walking.
I look at him from a distance,
but we are so different;
it's because he was born with the century
with trolleys and red wine.
Old, my dear old man
he already walks dully;
as if he was forgiving the wind
I'm your blood, my old man
I am your silence and your time.
He's got kind eyes
and a heavy shape;
age came down upon him
without a carnival or a krewe.
I've got the new years
and the man has got the old years;
he carries the pain inside
and he has got history without time.
Old, my beloved old man
now walks heavily;
as if forgiving the wind
I'm your blood, my old man
I am your silence and your time.