Since I lost you, its easy to fill the heart of the mirrors, the stove is a flame, since I lost you, the alley doesnt call me, I dont feel myself, God doesnt look at me, a mirage like your eyes falls on the dirt of the road, I became like a gypsy who has no land, how much should I cry for you to make my homesickness drawn, which star can count the night of my death? I am still a sketch of a pond that has not seen the color of the moon , the corpus of swallows that pass over the forest take my soul towards you towards the storm, since I lost you, it is as if I myself was lost, in the passage of autumn, I became full in myself, since I lost you, the alley does not call me, I do not feel myself, God does not look at me, a mirage of the same shape. Your eyes are falling on the dirt of the road , I have become like a gypsy who has no land, how much should I cry for you to make my homesickness draw, which star can count the night of my death?
