Seleziona il linguaggio per tradurre questo testo
The little girl of my Sundays
Always wore her pleated skirt
She walked as stiff as a board
So as not to dirty the varnish of the shoes
If these tips shone in the sun
She smelled of yesterday's curlers
She was wearing her crown of thorns
Poor mothball puppets
They put white socks on me
They put me in parted to the side
In my nice Sunday pants
I was going to pretend to pray
I arrived first at the Church
So that others don't slander
We put the children in the window
Poor mothball puppets
I would always have deep inside me
This yellowed image, this smell of yesteryear
I will always have deep inside me
But today I left my village
In my neighborhood no bell tower
And the kids on the fifteenth floor
Take their girlfriends to the movies
But every weekend
There are images that come back
And every time a Saturday ends
I see the mothball puppets again
I will always have deep inside me
This yellowed image, this smell of yesteryear
I will always have deep inside me
The little girl of my Sundays
Who always put on her pleated skirt
And who walked as stiff as a board
So as not to dirty the varnish of the shoes
The little girl of my Sundays
Who always wore her pleated skirt
And who walked as stiff as a board
To avoid dirtying the varnish of the shoes