La cantina

The moon has silvered the Riachuelo
and there's a boat coming back from the sea,
like a sweet piece of sky
with an old handful of salt.
Lost swallow in the wind,
which remote street will she walk,
with a glass of alcohol and fear
behind the foggy glass of a bar.

The dive bar
always cries when it evokes you
when the Italian accordion plays softly...
The dive bar,
which is a bit of life
where were you hiding
behind the hollow of my hand.
Of my hand
that calls you silently,
butterfly that in flying,
left on my mouth, yes!
its salty taste of sea.

The moon has fallen asleep among riggings,
a tango cries its sad verse,
and between a bit of wind and foam
comes the fatal echo of your voice.
Tarantella of the Italian boat
the dive bar has become happy,
but I feel that your memory cries distantly
dressed in gray.