Oh,
when morning starts so badly.
When my dreams descend like hawks,
and the past refuses to leave.
Whoever loves me,
let them come.
Let the sky be blue with morning glories.
Not all time is the same.
The vine that sleeps on the fence
opening its flowers,
is not sad,
does not think,
as drop by drop the sun turns into blossoms.
So if night would leave a few stars
in my heart.
The moon touch my soul with purity.
I could wake free of pain,
and the thorns that drew blood
go back to the earth,
and leave only their roses.
How easy then everything would be,
even the coming and going
of old sorrows.