Switched on are the TV sets,

Locked are the doors of conversations,

Forgotten are the ladies and the card games,

Asleep are the farms when the younger leave.

 

Broken are the lights of the partying streets,

Cool the wine that burns the plates,

Taken away are the words of the kind waitresses,

Disappeared are the dogs playing under tables.

 

Torn are the tablecloths of the wedding nights,

Forgotten are the tales of the sleeping kids,

Stopped are the waltzes of the last petticoats

And the falses notes of accordions.

 

It’s a lost hamlet under the stars,

With old curtains hanging from dirty windows;

And on the old sideboard, under the grey dust,

A postcard still remains.

 

Tarred are the stones of the quiet paths,

High grown are the weeds in fragile places,

Deserted are the squares with beautiful fountains,

Dried up are the tracks of fountains’ water.

 

Forgotten are our grandfathers’ sacred sentences

In the hearths of big stony fireplaces,

Flown away are the laughter of harvest nights,

And switched on are the TV sets.

 

 It’s a lost hamlet under the stars,

With old curtains hanging from dirty windows;

And on the old sideboard, under the grey dust,

A postcard still remains.

 

Flown away are the dresses of the beautiful betrothed,

Crickets’ wings, baskets of cherries,

Forgotten are the laughter of harvests nights,

And switched on are the TV sets.

Switched on are the TV sets.