When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
We must dream our way.
Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.
I do not love you-except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.
Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?