If you leave, the trees in the park
will still grow, this autumn will end.
Two new solitudes will come together,
they’ll lie to each other, we’ll still be crazy.
In the Metro1 you will give me a sleepy smile on our way to class,
and I—as always—will probably be late.
I’ll still close bars and memories.
I'll never learn to retreat on time.
I’ll sleep rough; I’ll kiss other fires.
The city in your absence will still grow,
devouring lives, turning them into smoke.
Others will carry out the plans we made
and didn’t finish, making them theirs.
You'll keep crying at the movies,
forgetting all you learnt.
A thousand children and new songs will be born,
and perhaps some of them, perhaps will carry your name.
New simulations, new confessions.
If you leave, the trees in the park
will still die and so will my faith.
I will still forget my keys behind
when leaving home, and maybe in your skin
there will be someone hiding his fatigue,
all his fears, or maybe his lips.
So many, many things will still happen,
that maybe things won’t be so different.
So many, many things.
But, if you leave, these days will be
that dirty and empty fringe of beach,
that’s left when you are gone;
when the sea parts and the tide falls.
I will be tired and maybe older,
cursing those dead days.
So many, many things will still happen,
that maybe things won’t be so different.
So many, many things.
