She was never the prettier dancer in the cabaret.
Nobody duelled for her, Sabina1 never sung to her.
Lautrec2 never painted her beautiful scars.
Penelope be damned, Odysseus3 never returned.
No customer ever fell in love with her,
and the sea wasn't hiding behind her green eyes.
She hadn't lost a man, there was no disappointment,
just some evil potions, hunger, a few failures.
The oldest woman on earth
sells peace, waits in the dark
for you to come to her, to heal your wound,
to dissipate your doubts, to bury you in cuddles,
to hide you in her cold hands, for those cold hands to shelter you.
Getting beaten, and not only by life.
Like leaves in autumn her days were disappearing.
What will you do when time devours all your hours?
Perhaps snow will cover you, perhaps you'll grow old alone.
You lie and smile while a nettle grows
in your mouth when you kiss some stranger's skin.
And even if you survive, I won't buy any of their stories,
for you are not blessed or witch of the north.
The oldest woman on earth
sells peace, waits in the dark
for you to come to her, to heal your wound,
to dissipate your doubts, to bury you in cuddles,
to hide you in her cold hands, for those cold hands to shelter you.
Night flower, I don't want to give her my pity,
nor show her mercy, I don't want to sympathize.
Proletarian hooker, with permission I only want
a gesture of solidarity, to pay her my respects.
To pay her my respects.
