My mind says: "not a superstition!»,
But for some reason I want to admit,
In seventy, I believe in love,
As hard to believe sometime in the eighteen.

Sit by the window, light the candle again
And gaze into the dark road… 
And in the seventy and tenderness I want,
Like eighteen.  Fool, really!

And yet... all of a sudden? Over there, easy breathing,
Languishing in the unknown dull
Native homeless soul,
Where in life happiness is not enough?

Well, come on over. Forget about pain and sadness.
And I in its the world you open the shutters.
I'll just, you know, put my heart into it.
Paint over gray hair. And teeth in.

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