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Beautiful To Death

In love movies, goodness always wins
and those who break up always get back together
but for you and me, now, there's a different end.
 
The crowd among the doves is watching us,
the cold, our breath, the fog
and me, on Sunday morning, crying for you
 
who is beautiful to death,
you, young girl.
On your breast, to be stolen,
I don’t play anymore.
 
And you’re beautiful to death,
everything looks like a movie
to be shot too fast
with its “end” on your blue jeans.
 
At sixteen, the heart can’t be lost,
not even when you try to make love
and you've won it all over me.
 
All that remains of you is a t-shirt,
left on the bed in a hurry
and me crying on Sunday morning, here, for you
 
who is beautiful to death,
you, young girl.
On your breast, to be stolen,
I don’t play anymore.
 
And you're beautiful to death,
everything looks like a movie
to be shot too fast
with its “end” on your blue jeans.
 
And you're beautiful to death,
everything looks like a movie
to be shot too fast
with its “end” on your blue jeans.
 

Florence Dreams

Florence, tonight you're beautiful
under a blanket of stars
that, in the sky, are glittering, flickering
like little flames.
 
In the shadows you're hiding the lovers,
the trembling mouths speak words of love to themselves.
Around there is so much poetry
for you, my life, my heart is sighing.
 
On the silvery Arno
the firmament mirrors itself
while a sigh and a song
fade in the distance.
 
Florence is sleeping
under the moonray
but behind a balcony
a brunette madonna is laying awake.
 
Balconies adorned with grapevine leaves
and wisteria in bloom,
tonight, open yourselves up again
because love is passing by.
 
Serenades are germinating,
madonnas, listen, they are a thousand songs.
One of your smiles is life itself,
the infinite joy, the eternal passion.
 
On the silvery Arno
the firmament mirrors itself
while a sigh and a song
fade in the distance.
 
Florence is sleeping
under the moonray
but behind a balcony
a brunette madonna is laying awake.
 
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