Passerà [English translation]

Songs don't get written

But get born by themselves.

These are things which happen

Every day around us.

It's enough to collect songs,

There is one for you,

For you who complicates his life

And never smiles.

Songs are gypsies, they steal poetry,

They are a deception as a pill of happiness.

Songs don't cure neither love, nor diseases

But that small pain

Which cause to us existence.

It will pass, will pass

If there is a fellow with a guitar

Just like you, in the city

Looking at that life which stands

And kills us with illusions.

And with the age of songs

It will pass above us,

We will be in a bank sooner or later

With "why" and "who knows?"

And with melancholy of a rich poverty

We talk about love which you don't have.

To sing a song which you don't know

Because you have lost it inside

And only remember, it will pass

In the world of cars

And a big speed.

For whom arrives always as last

And for whom they say "good-bye".

For whom faces different obstacles.

Songs are glow-worms

Which sing in the darkness.

It will pass, sooner or later

This small pain which is in you,

Which is in me, which is in us

And makes us feel seamen.

In the power of a wind and nostalgia

To sing a song which you don't know

But that small pain, whether it will be hate or love will pass.

It will pass

Even if you will just sing "la, la, la"

It will pass

And a song will serve to something

If your small pain

Whether it will be hate or love, will pass...