It's a good man my old man, who is alone and waiting. He has a long sadness, from going through life.
I watch him from afar, but we are so diferent, it's that he grew up in the century of trams and red wine.
Old man, my dear old man, now he already walks slow;
like forgiving the wind, I'm your blood, my old man. I, am your silence and your time.
He has kind eyes and a heavy figure; age has fallen above him, without carnival either comparsa.
I have new years and he has old years; he has pain inside, and has a story without time.
Old man, my dear old man, now he already walks slow;
like forgiving the wind, I'm your blood, my old man. I, am your silence and your time.