It's me, it's me the one who didn't dream
But leaves a trace of light into your palms
It's me who grows the fire from within
Which gives the music to your psalms.
The air contracts itself into a painting
Of crying angels and of falling leaves
The sea kept silent for a moment
Hearing the colours turning gray in wings.
The night moves its feet onto the street
This day becomes just another theme
Your eyes bake a bread from the moon's wheat
It's me, it's me the one who didn't dream.
