This is the story of a Saturday
of no matter what month
and of a man sitting at the piano
and no matter how old the coffee is.
He takes the glass and trembles his hands stinking of smoke and sweat and he clings to his shipwrecked board, returning to his eternal song. Play again, old loser. that suits me well.
The night is so sad that your song
tastes of defeat and honey.
Every time the mirror on the wall
returns her younger skin
his eyes light up and his childhood
comes to play with him.
But there are always drunks with drool
who remind him of who he was:
the youngest master at the piano
defeated by a woman.
She was always afraid of putting down roots
that her wings could be cut off
and in the cage she put her life away. He was going
and wanted to steal his wings.
He does not regret that he took bad steps
although he never wishes him harm
but at times, with fury, he hits the piano
and there are some who have seen him cry.
Play again, old loser
you make me feel good.
The night is so sad that your song
tastes of defeat and honey .