He sang for just one night
in this little cafe.
He sang for a drink
and for love.
He sang for just one night
several songs of summer,
and I wanted to believe him
because he believed in what he sang.
It was full of the ocean,
of sun and of wind.
It was pure like him—
pure like the rain.
He sang for just one night.
I went towards him,
towards his strange refrains
set to melodies from another country.
It was full of caresses,
of sweetness, of youth.
It was real like him—
as real as the night.
He will sing tonight
in a country far away.
He sings without knowing
that I—here—I dream of him.