Rags do love too Manuel, Manueliño, a túa chaqueta ben cheira, cheira a rosa, cheira a flor, cheira a flor da laranxeira Non hai flor, non hai flor, Maruxiña, non hai flor como a túa e a miña; non hai flor, non hai flor, Maruxeira, non hai flor como a da laranxeira....
The finished house in the background, envious of dwelling in a formwork? The nature in the background, with branches and leaves, with the will to be a tree with string branches and coloured leaves?...
These stones keeps the memory of the ancient fire. These stones all keep the memory of the heat of cold times. Clothes to be dried are a tribute to the memory from the hands that warmed up in that heat coming from the cold. When they get...
She undressed herself and left. She left the house fixed and hers clothes washed and went away. She leaves no misery behind. What for, so? She knows life is to be stained and cleansed and stained again and to know how to clean herself. Again and...
They look, they just look. You don’t know if they´re waiting. You don’t even know what they’re looking at. But they’re looking with a blind eye. Lurking. As they’re airing through the window slit out, they lurk and fret. If I stop, they defy; If I look at them, they challenge; if I hurry...