Those evenings with the radio on the boulevard
those days with Marindia in the sun
I have a handful of memories of sand
among the fingers with the sand you go
The evenings with violets and roses
the lemon trees wandering through the shed
I'm watering the time with your memories
among the fingers with the water you go
In a mirror with old faces
there was a place for your complaints
On a notebook of black covers
there was an air of dead things
In a mirror with old stains
there was a place for your complaints
On a notebook of black covers
there was an air of dead things