Turn on the television sets,
Locked the doors of conversations,
Forgotten the checkers and the card games,
Asleep the farms when the young people leave.
Broken the lights of the festive streets,
Chilled the wine burning the plates,
Carried away the words of the kind waitresses,
And disappeared the dogs playing under the tables.
Torn the tablecloths of wedding evenings,
Forgotten the fables of children's sleep,
Arrested them waltzes of the last petticoats,
And the wrong notes of the accordions.
It's a hamlet lost under the stars,
With old curtains hanging from dirty windows,
And on the old sideboard under the gray dust,
There remains a postcard.
Tarred the stones of the quiet paths,
Recovered the grass of fragile places,
Deserted the squares of the beautiful fairgrounds,
Dried up the traces of water from the fountains.
Forgotten the sacred phrases of grandfathers res,
To the beings of the large stone fireplaces,
Gone are the laughter of harvest nights,
And the television sets are turned on.
br/>It's a hamlet lost under the stars,
With old curtains hanging from dirty windows,
And on the old sideboard under the gray dust,
It There remains a postcard.
Gone are the dresses of the beautiful brides,
The wings of the crickets, the baskets of cherries,
Forgotten the laughter of harvest nights,
And turned on the television sets.

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