The years may pass
and forget the fields where, yesterday, I played.
I may forget my poems
that, at that school, i wrote yesterday.
I may forget
my hometown holiday,
that sensation of freedom
the Sunday afternoons.
But never I'll be able to forget
that first love,
that was sincere, that was true.
But never I'll be able to forget
that first love,
that was sincere, that was true.
It may get lost, far back,
that old village that slept under the sun.
I may forget the time
that flying by, I felt grown up.
I may forget
the napping hours in the loft,
my color pencils' box
and my keen desire of being a poet some day.
But never I'll be able to forget
that first love,
that was sincere, that was true.
But never I'll be able to forget
that first love,
that was sincere, that was true.
I may forget my shadow
that, once in a while, taught me how to play,
I may forget my name
that, although poor, I liked to have,
I may forget
the wind's caress that, on blowing by,
left in my porch, each afternoon,
the autumn leaves.
But never I'll be able to forget
that first love,
that was sincere, that was true.
But never I'll be able to forget
that first love,
that was sincere, that was true.