FILIPPO ANDREANI - MIA
beautifully discovered by chance under a pile of records
Like when you find yellowed photographs in the attic, they just want to tell you their stories,
you hold the hand of the little teacher who looks at you smiling, everything sounds, and the flowers on the white walls have a name and sing a sweet love rhyme with our name.
The sun sets, it’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean me harm, but the photographs no longer tell their stories, the flowers no longer have a name.
The little teacher no longer holds my hand, she no longer loves me.
For a while, I must leave you; I have to leave the life I like, the one I chose, the only one I want. I don’t like it, I’m going to buy myself a nice striped shirt, one of those that are in fashion. My simply white one, where sometimes I see beautiful stories, must be thrown away.
beautifully discovered by chance under a pile of records
Like when you find yellowed photographs in the attic, they just want to tell you their stories,
you hold the hand of the little teacher who looks at you smiling, everything sounds, and the flowers on the white walls have a name and sing a sweet love rhyme with our name.
The sun sets, it’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean me harm, but the photographs no longer tell their stories, the flowers no longer have a name.
The little teacher no longer holds my hand, she no longer loves me.
For a while, I must leave you; I have to leave the life I like, the one I chose, the only one I want. I don’t like it, I’m going to buy myself a nice striped shirt, one of those that are in fashion. My simply white one, where sometimes I see beautiful stories, must be thrown away.
ALFAMA
9 jun 19
DeRank ™: 4,56
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