La Carta

That letter
That your hand tore apart
For the sole
Crime of being mine
She picked it up later
In pieces
A poor woman
My mother

That letter
That your hand tore apart
For the sole
Crime of being mine
She picked it up later
In pieces
A poor woman
My mother

Because the poor old woman picked it up
With an august face
And a gray head
For a gesture
Of light and quarrel
That's why my mother
In her sorrow knew
That the pieces
Of that letter
Were pieces, oh
Of my soul

Because the poor old woman picked it up
With an august face
And a gray head
For a gesture
Of light and quarrel
That's why my mother
In her sorrow knew
That the pieces
Of that letter
Were pieces, oh
Of my soul