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? Sunday is over
and the motorbikes move away
the Apennines? disheveled
without pi? snow outside.
Under a romantic rock makeup
the little girl said her first goodbye
and what about the future? behind the glass,
it tastes like chocolate
and the cold that goes away, goes away, goes away, goes away.
Great hopes at the stops in the morning
with cheeks reddened by dreams from half an hour ago,
with the pink slip in your pocket for the destiny
that promises from the televisions and walls in the city.
Great hopes of foreign holidays
for the little blue girls girls at the bar checkouts
and that someone, while about to pay,
recognizes the woman who has always dreamed of the most.
With his hands in his pockets among the change
I think to my stories that continue,
while the wind blows the sparrows high
and we all hope that it won't rain anymore.
Above certain islands
hope has nets and muscles
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