| Think of me | |
| when the sun will burn away | |
| even the last of your dreams | |
| think of me | |
| when the moon will shine | |
| on the last of your defeats | |
| I remember in the shadow of poverty | |
| the pride of a young boy | |
| searching for the right ways | |
| running among dust and cries | |
| towards his way | |
| the same one that now belongs to you | |
| don‘t throw to the wind your story | |
| Give it the time to be | |
| Don‘t always turn back | |
| Every time you do it | |
| You loose an important part of you | |
| follow the instinct | |
| when it urges you | |
| towards new stories | |
| only give up when the game | |
| threatens your hole existence | |
| the roots you have inside | |
| are a small part of history | |
| i have lived, too | |
| and those little smiles | |
| a hundred years old | |
| are now part of you | |
| are now part of you | |
| are now part of you | |
| when the sky cries | |
| soaking the undergrowth of society | |
| real cradle of declared vices | |
| making it the slimiest ever | |
| men running away looking for cover | |
| as if they were afraid | |
| that it could melt | |
| their faces all the same | |
| of those too slow | |
| only remain stripes of blood | |
| which thinned by their own murderer | |
| slowly disappear in black holes | |
| of those too stupid | |
| only remain the footprints | |
| used as wedges under the doors | |
| to let the speedy ones through |
| Think of me | |
| when the sun will burn away | |
| even the last of your dreams | |
| think of me | |
| when the moon will shine | |
| on the last of your defeats | |
| I remember in the shadow of poverty | |
| the pride of a young boy | |
| searching for the right ways | |
| running among dust and cries | |
| towards his way | |
| the same one that now belongs to you | |
| don' t throw to the wind your story | |
| Give it the time to be | |
| Don' t always turn back | |
| Every time you do it | |
| You loose an important part of you | |
| follow the instinct | |
| when it urges you | |
| towards new stories | |
| only give up when the game | |
| threatens your hole existence | |
| the roots you have inside | |
| are a small part of history | |
| i have lived, too | |
| and those little smiles | |
| a hundred years old | |
| are now part of you | |
| are now part of you | |
| are now part of you | |
| when the sky cries | |
| soaking the undergrowth of society | |
| real cradle of declared vices | |
| making it the slimiest ever | |
| men running away looking for cover | |
| as if they were afraid | |
| that it could melt | |
| their faces all the same | |
| of those too slow | |
| only remain stripes of blood | |
| which thinned by their own murderer | |
| slowly disappear in black holes | |
| of those too stupid | |
| only remain the footprints | |
| used as wedges under the doors | |
| to let the speedy ones through |
| Think of me | |
| when the sun will burn away | |
| even the last of your dreams | |
| think of me | |
| when the moon will shine | |
| on the last of your defeats | |
| I remember in the shadow of poverty | |
| the pride of a young boy | |
| searching for the right ways | |
| running among dust and cries | |
| towards his way | |
| the same one that now belongs to you | |
| don' t throw to the wind your story | |
| Give it the time to be | |
| Don' t always turn back | |
| Every time you do it | |
| You loose an important part of you | |
| follow the instinct | |
| when it urges you | |
| towards new stories | |
| only give up when the game | |
| threatens your hole existence | |
| the roots you have inside | |
| are a small part of history | |
| i have lived, too | |
| and those little smiles | |
| a hundred years old | |
| are now part of you | |
| are now part of you | |
| are now part of you | |
| when the sky cries | |
| soaking the undergrowth of society | |
| real cradle of declared vices | |
| making it the slimiest ever | |
| men running away looking for cover | |
| as if they were afraid | |
| that it could melt | |
| their faces all the same | |
| of those too slow | |
| only remain stripes of blood | |
| which thinned by their own murderer | |
| slowly disappear in black holes | |
| of those too stupid | |
| only remain the footprints | |
| used as wedges under the doors | |
| to let the speedy ones through |
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