In the eyes still smell of bread, wood
hate dreams that seem to clash
on the wings of a butterfly to the crocus
still steals away your longing for home.
I understand you and I pray every day, cooked by
basilica, with wings of a dove, flies
heat, cramped dining and comfort,
a hand on my heart.
I understand it, and wish to return,
when all is quiet now and everything is asleep,
give strength to your hand,
that day to take you to the stars.
I give you our field of wheat,
new pedals to your bike,
return, I promise, you know, one day,
how many years ago, remember, grandpa?
(Mario Mascapé 1923 to 2010)
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