It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?
Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
This cruel age has deflected me, like a river from this course. Strayed from its familiar shores, my changeling life has flowed into a sister channel. How many spectacles I've missed: the curtain rising without me, and falling too. How many friends I never had the chance to meet.