Accustomed or In Love?
Pierluigi Banna - A dialogue between young people and Pierluigi Banna, professor of theology and patristics.
Moderator: Well, thank you. Thank you to those who sang and to those who played. Thank you to all of you for being here. Good evening, and welcome to this meeting, which opens the first evening of the Cremona Open.
The stands—this is the 28th edition, I'm told, so we've come a long way together—and the food court are already off to a great start, in keeping with this year's title: “Living Large.” The theme is, “The unexpected is the only hope.” How can we live large today? And above all, what does “living large” even mean? And what unexpected event are we talking about, since that’s the title? In a world this complex, both globally and locally, does it still make sense to hope? Is it reasonable?
In short, these are the questions we started with when planning this year's Open. We didn't want to presume an answer, but we didn't want to start from scratch, either. There is one thing, in fact, that we must never stop looking at, a sort of starting point: our own experience.
And here, some might say, “Well, then we're in bad shape.” Because if we look at the reality around us, we have to admit there are dozens of wars in the world—not just the two, or rather three, most prominently discussed. We have to acknowledge the daily violence, our own limitations, and the fact that we often feel inadequate, drained, and tired of everything from the moment we wake up.
Would that be our starting point? Not very inviting, I’d say.
But that's not all. If we are honest, we must admit there are at least two other things we cannot ignore. The first is something Vasco Rossi's song, which we heard at the beginning, reminded us of when it says: “Take my hand and tell me that nothing is impossible.” The truth of our hearts, everyone, always rises to the surface. It longs for the impossible to become possible and for our desire for infinity to meet infinity. There is a place inside us that refuses to believe everything is hopeless.
The second thing we can't ignore is that we have all met people who know how to face everything—work, family, the chaos of children, illness, pain, death—with an enviable and unshakeable positivity. Why? What have they encountered? Who have they met?
The image that best describes these people—evoked so well by Giuni Russo’s beautiful song—is that of someone in love. This is what came to mind: a person who feels loved, and therefore loves in return, walks with joy and confidence even when the road is uphill.
I don't know if you're familiar with the scene from the second Don Camillo film, which I absolutely love. He's climbing a mountain path in a blizzard, carrying an enormous crucifix on his shoulders that he retrieved from his hometown. He must reach a ruined mountain village where he's been banished by the bishop as punishment. He has already experienced terrible loneliness there and is now on his way back. At a certain point in that exhausting journey, Jesus on the cross speaks to him again after a long silence. Don Camillo, hearing His voice, utters a fundamental truth: “Now that I hear Your voice, everything is more beautiful.”
Everything is more beautiful, even though the conditions haven't changed. The climb is still the climb, the cold is still the cold, and the remote village is still waiting for him. What rekindled his hope? It was the experience of feeling loved again, through the voice of the One who loves him.
So, tonight we won't be talking about Don Camillo, partly because he isn't here with us. However, we have another “don” who is at least as good as him. In my opinion, even better! On a more serious note, tonight we will focus on our own experiences to ask ourselves what—and who—reawakens hope in us, and with it, the possibility of a full and flavorful life, despite our daily struggles. Because, let's face it, we often don't live like people in love, but like people who are merely “used to” things. Pope Francis said this to the cardinals, and we chose this reflection for our theme: the real challenge today is between those who live as people in love and those who live in routine.
Only those who truly love can “live large” and walk with purpose. For this reason, we're joined tonight by a great friend, Don Pierluigi Banna—a priest originally from Catania but now living in Milan, and a professor of patristic theology—whom we welcome with a huge round of applause.
We've designed this evening as a dialogue, with questions that address our shared doubts, fears, and uncertainties. Let's talk about them openly, because they belong to all of us. Let's start with the first question.
Question from the Audience: Hi, I'm Tommaso. My youngest daughter was born two weeks ago, and I'm convinced she won't live in a society with the same level of well-being we enjoy today. In fact, I'm often quite pessimistic about the future, mainly because of the demographic winter, violence, and rampant individualism. So my question is: how can we look to the future with serenity and hope while living in a civilization that seems doomed to decline?
Question from the Audience: Hi, I'm Matteo. I’d like to follow up on what Tommaso said about our relationships with our children. My question concerns the connection between freedom, hope, and education. When I look at my own life, I recognize that I have encountered events, companionship, and a certainty that give a foundation to my hope. When I look at my children, however, I wonder what will become of them. I often fear their freedom will lead them to make choices different from what I would wish for them—from what I believe is right—and that, ultimately, they won't encounter what I have. My question, then, is this: how can we reconcile our educational duty—which is an effort, a commitment that requires all our strength—with a gaze of true hope for the freedom of our children and loved ones?
Pierluigi Banna: Thank you for these questions. Very often, when we look at the future—our own or our children's—based on predictions, our gaze focuses on what won't come true. And a prediction that fails to materialize tends to generate anxiety. A personal example: I have to turn in a paper in a week, but I know I have no time to write it. My prediction is that I'll be late. What does this unfulfilled prediction generate? Anxiety.
We often find ourselves dominated by this feeling because our predictions seem destined for disappointment. The Korean-German philosopher Byung-Chul Han says we are afflicted by an “epidemic of anxiety,” which is really an epidemic of disappointed expectations. Perhaps, though, we can take this anxiety by the horns to understand something: if anxiety doesn't generate hope, then to talk about hope, we must not start with our predictions. Not with what you, Tommaso, imagine when you look at demographic decline or the isolation of young people.
This concept was taught to me by a beautiful parable Jesus tells in the Gospel about a man with great foresight—an early entrepreneur. He manages to bring in an exceptional harvest and builds ever-larger silos to store it, predicting he'll have enough for years to come. Having fulfilled his predictions, he tells himself he can finally rest, satisfied—the dream of anyone whose plans have worked out.
Yet a man named Jesus of Nazareth calls this successful man a “fool.” I ask myself: who among us would call him that? We’d see him as a success, a man with a hopeful future. Instead, Jesus catches us off guard. Why is he a fool? Because he forgets that his very life could be demanded of him that night. This man bases the entire value of his life on his own predictions, and this will lead to profound disappointment. Jesus's judgment on our predictions has made me think. When we entrust our vision of life to anxiety-inducing predictions, we are being foolish, because we are missing the evidence right in front of us. And the greatest allies in seeing this, Tommaso, are our own children.
I was recently struck by Matteo Bussola’s novel La neve in fondo al mare (Snow at the Bottom of the Sea). It's about parents who find themselves at their children's bedside in a psychiatric hospital. Near the end, one of the sons, back home, tells his father: “You gave me a lot of role models, and I thank you. But they all crushed me. You gave me models, but you didn't give me a path.” This is powerful because young people, with their anguish, are telling us that our predictions are missing something vital.
In this regard, I'll mention another book, The Right to Be Unhappy by Gari Gottfredson, which says, essentially: “Your adult predictions describe perfect ideals we are supposed to conform to, but which none of us are.” Instead, there can be a “right to be unhappy”—the right to acknowledge, “This is who I am, with this fear, this imperfection, this flaw that makes me different, yet unique.”
How do we find hope when a prediction is broken? It happens when we realize—sometimes through a child's tears—that reality is bigger than our plans. “But how? I gave you everything I could, and you're not happy?” Exactly. Because happiness, thank God, is broader than what I planned for you.
Herein lies the answer to the second question. What breaks individualism isn't someone telling you, “Don't be individualistic.” Parents with children locked in their rooms know this well. It's not by saying, “Get out of your room!” that the child comes out. Many appeals to end isolation only exacerbate the problem. I remember one time I was almost attacked by a dog. The owner kept saying, “Don't worry, he won't bite!” but I saw the dog's face and was terrified. She could repeat it a thousand times, but the dog kept growling.
The point is this: a command—“don't be afraid!”—doesn't take away fear. What does? It is, inexplicably, someone who embraces you in your fear. Someone who recognizes your right to feel bad and says, “It's okay to be who you are. This is the starting point for entering a life much bigger than the one all the paradigms want to reduce you to.” It is someone who says, “Your need, your fear, your anguish—this is your starting point.”
I haven't given a complete answer to everything, but for me, this is how we find hope again: by breaking the predictions that generate anxiety and instead looking at a person for who they are, keeping them company. If you can accompany someone who is alone, you have already broken their individualism, because you have made their loneliness your own. For me, this is the beginning of hope.
Question from the Audience: Excuse me, I’d like to start with my work experience. The company I work for is going through major changes: the financial situation has suddenly become delicate, there's talk of layoffs, the leadership has changed, and no one’s job is secure. There's enormous pressure to perform, with difficult decisions being made quickly. An environment that for many years was challenging but friendly has turned into a “mors tua, vita mea” struggle for survival. Everything good I built with my colleagues seems to be slipping away like sand through my fingers. My job was something I took for granted as a solid success. Now, everything is faltering, and it feels like a huge defeat. My question is: how can I avoid being overwhelmed by worry and instead look at what is happening with hope?
Question from the audience: One of the most beautiful definitions of hope I've come across is from Václav Havel’s book The Power of the Powerless. Havel was a dissident of the Czechoslovak communist regime in the 1970s and 80s before becoming president of the Czech Republic. In that book, he defines hope this way:
“Hope is not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”
In my opinion, this view of hope does justice to all the modern oversimplifications: from the “everything will be fine” motto of the Covid era, to the sheer willpower of the “one in a thousand who makes it” (which dismisses the other 999), to the illusion that we must tap into some phantom “positive energies” to get by.
The question for us is always the same: what can truly give meaning to things, regardless of their outcome, especially when the outcome is the opposite of what we expect?
Speaker (Don Pierluigi Banna): Thank you. Hope, therefore, is not an inner force of will, an optimism against all evidence, or, as we used to say, resilience. As I said before, hope comes from someone who looks at you as you are. It’s not a look of compassion, like one you might give a dog on a long leash. Instead, it’s a look full of certainty that there is a possibility in you that you do not see. An encounter that gives you hope is one with someone who sees more in you than you see in yourself.
It is said that the three theological virtues are faith, hope, and charity. I believe that faith and charity are “blind,” while hope is the virtue that sees. Faith is blind because it believes in what it does not immediately see; charity is blind because it gives without counting. Hope, on the other hand, sees; it sees what is not visible at first glance. It is the gaze of someone who, when you say, “I’m a mess,” or, “Today is a total loss,” replies, “Are you sure you’ve seen everything?” It is someone who invites you to look up and see much more. And this fills you with hope.
We can recall another Gospel story: a man despairs when he sees weeds growing in the field he cultivated. What does Jesus tell his disciples? He invites them not to focus on the weeds but to look at the growing wheat. “Let it grow,” he says, inviting his friends to see what they had momentarily stopped seeing. And hope returns to them.
I believe that much of the atheism of our time is not a matter of “believing or not believing,” but of “seeing or not seeing.” Those who don’t look intently don’t notice the great evidence that passes before their eyes and end up repeating what others say. Thus, today we are dominated by the narrative of war, tomorrow by that of violence, then by that of rights. Others decide for us, instead of our own eyes firing up with what they see. This is what gives us hope.
What is our greatest temptation when we despair? To blind ourselves and say, “Everything is black.” If one thing goes wrong, we conclude the whole day is ruined. But have we considered everything else that happened? Another temptation is to believe that hope can only come if we forcefully eliminate the “black spot”—the temptation of violence to generate hope. Instead, hope arises from a gaze that, where everyone else sees black, already sees the expanding wheat field, the growing seed.
Another example might help. A child falls off his bike, skins his knee, and cries. His father, however, is happy. Why? Because he knows his son is learning to ride, and falling is part of the process. The father has more hope because he sees the bigger picture. This example helps us understand why we often face the “black spots” in our lives with only a child's perspective: because perhaps we lack a “father’s” perspective, one that sees beyond what we see. A gaze that smiles when we cry and says, “Don’t cry. You are learning something greater that you cannot see right now.”
To answer your questions, the problem is not a lack of inner energy, but the lack of a loving gaze that allows you to see what your disappointment prevents you from seeing. If you find a father—a companion who is a father to you—and you hear him say, “Look, I see more in you than you see right now,” then that hope, drawing close to your pain, slowly begins to blossom.
Question from the Audience: I'm a teacher, and I often lose hope, or at least feel helpless, when faced with the vast needs of my students. It often seems that no approach works and that the “unexpected,” which should be our only hope, never arrives. My question is: how do you not lose hope when facing what feels like a rubber wall?
Question from the Audience: Hi, I'm Giovanni. My question is about friendship and dealing with limitations—our own and others'. I'd like help understanding two things. First, how can a friend's limitation become an opportunity to “live large,” rather than just an impediment? Second, how can our own limitations—especially when we've hurt someone and can't seem to mend the relationship—still hold the seed of hope for change? Reflecting on one friendship, I realize I waste a lot of energy trying to “fix” what seems wrong. And when I inevitably fail, I lose hope and tend to pull away. How can we maintain a broader, more hopeful perspective instead? Thank you.
Question from the audience: So, my question is this: we are made to give the love we have received, yet the daily temptation is to settle for less—to not love the people around us with the same intensity with which we are loved. So I ask you: why do we so easily forget how much we are loved? And why don't we always recognize this good in our own lives?
Pierluigi Banna: These questions go deeper and deeper. As your testimonies show, one can be full of love and hope—like a father watching his son learn to ride a bike—and yet be unable to communicate that hope. You come up against, as the first question noted, a “rubber wall,” a limit that makes the other person seem like an impenetrable, unknown universe. And, as we know, this experience recurs most often in our closest relationships: the more you try to give hope to a loved one, the more you confront the fact that they are not “yours,” that you cannot force them back into motion. There is a barrier. I think it’s an experience we’ve all had.
Faced with this, hope can stall. Sometimes we say, “Well, there's nothing more to do here.” This limit is the other person's freedom—be it a spouse, a child, or a parent. It’s like a “sign.” In Greek, the word for sign is sema, which can also mean “tomb.” In this sense, the limit is a place where you must stop. If the other person doesn’t respond, the relationship ends, generating the estrangement we often feel even in our most intimate connections.
However, in Latin, “sign” can also be limes, meaning a “boundary” or “threshold.” In this sense, the sign is not a tomb but the beginning of a boundless universe, like the infinity that opened up for Ulysses beyond the Pillars of Hercules. It's a universe that doesn't belong to you, but is too attractive not to remain there, on the threshold, longing to know it and discover its depths. This is the real challenge for hope: is the other’s limit a tomb that ends the relationship, or is it a threshold that invites you into a world not your own?
A friend told me a story that left me speechless. Married for a few months, he was very tidy, while his wife was messy. Coming home from work to the mess she’d left, his “mental order” was irritated, and he would start tidying up nervously. That nervousness can be a sign of the end: "I've been telling you for five years, tidy up! If you don't, it means you don't care about me." End of relationship. Or, as he told me, that mess can become something else: "From the way things were left, I can reconstruct her movements before she left. Tidying up becomes a way to connect with her, to know her even when I wasn't there, to love her." This is the value of a sign: does it introduce you to something you can't control—the other in their otherness—or is it just a confirmation of your own powerlessness?
If you scrutinize the mystery of the other through their signs of resistance, you discover a world you don't know. It is only by affirming this unknown world that you regain hope in the relationship and love them more. Honestly, we don't love a person because we can predict their every reaction (“I knew you’d say that!”). We love them when we leave a margin of mystery between us.
Another couple surprised me. The husband was under house arrest for unjust reasons (he was later acquitted). His wife, unable to do anything else, woke up early every morning, went to Mass, and brought him Communion. She told me, with impressive simplicity: "At that moment, giving my husband Communion, I rediscovered the value of our marriage. Between him, imprisoned by his limitations, and me, in my own small way, there was this mystery, and it restored dignity to our relationship."
What, then, does it mean to give hope to love? We all run up against the limits of others. The challenge, in those moments, is to recenter the mystery that exists between you and me. The Christian tradition has a simple name for this gesture: forgiveness. Forgiveness gives the most hope to this world because it tells us we will not be judged by my standards or yours—which, however intelligent, are always limited. Instead, we both stand before a greater measure that embraces us and, with our limitations, brings us back together. This forgiveness is experienced only after feeling the bitterness of a limit, and it is what restores hope to the truest love.
To conclude, making room for this forgiveness—for this greater measure between us—requires detachment: accepting that there are many things about another person you will never understand, and yet they are not reducible to your understanding. There is a beautiful story in Genesis. After the flood, Noah plants a vineyard, drinks too much, and falls asleep drunk and naked in his tent. His son Ham sees him and mocks him. His other two sons, however, show great delicacy: understanding that their father, despite having saved them, is fragile, they walk backward and spread a veil over him. How many times have we placed this “veil” over those we love when we see their limits? Not to justify them, but to introduce another measure. This gesture of tenderness requires a detachment between my measure and yours.
In the Christian tradition, this detachment that allows for forgiveness is called virginity. Virginity is not about moralism, but about recognizing that a space is necessary between you and me, so that I cannot reduce you to my own measures and judgments. And this restores hope to who you are, to my love for you, and to our relationship.
Moderator: Thank you. My friend Caterina, who unfortunately couldn't be here tonight, sent me this question to read:
"I am very angry. It seems that everything I have done right in my life—following my heart, using the talents God gave me, never giving up an inch—is now useless. In fact, now that I am physically challenged by illness in the very things I always excelled at, all this mortifies me even more. Not being able to be who I was before just empties me. Hope has been reduced to a mere survival instinct, which isn't hope at all. Rationally, I can give myself the ‘right little answer,’ the one faith is supposed to provide, but in reality, all I feel is a kind of abandonment. I end up asking the Lord: ‘What did I do wrong? Are you punishing me for my failings? Why are you asking me to endure this struggle to live? Where is the hope?’”
Now we have Saverio.
Question from the Audience: This topic is very close to my heart, as it's a question I've been carrying with me these past few weeks. I want to pick up on a beautiful point from tonight: that the limit of another person can be either the tomb of hope or the threshold to a new beginning. My question is this: what if the other’s limit is death?
I feel the need to share this, though it’s personal, because my second child is about to be born. With all the stories you hear, whenever I hear about a child dying, it's heartbreaking. It's not just sentimental. On this journey we're on tonight, I have to ask: when the limit of the other is that they are gone, how can I love them if they no longer exist? Isn't that the definitive tomb for hope? I want to be a bit provocative, but only to engage fully with where we've been tonight. Thank you.
Pierluigi Banna: We couldn't end without this question, because the strongest, most evident limit in our lives is death itself. It's a limit we all face and often try to ignore, perhaps by filling our lives with the beauty of togetherness precisely to escape it.
Reading Caterina's question, I was reminded of the news story about the Indian family: a doctor who saved his life's earnings to bring his loved ones from India to London. A few minutes after boarding, the plane crashed, and they all died. Our lives hang by a thread. Just as life was given to us—none of us signed our own birth certificate—it can be taken away. How can we have hope in the face of this ultimate, irremediable limit?
A few days ago, I was struck by an article by Roberto Saviano in which he said that the problem with our species is this: we hope for something beyond death, beyond our limits. Compared to other animals, humans have this “flaw”: we hope. How do we manage this? Saviano suggests we can sublimate it—through religion, politics, consumerism—or, he said, we can take our own lives or choose not to reproduce. This is the conclusion human wisdom reaches when faced with the evidence that our lives are not in our own hands. Yet it is a bitter conclusion, describing a relentless effort to eradicate the innate desire for infinity that each of us carries.
What, then, can give us hope? For me, hope can only arise if someone from beyond the limit of death has come to tell us, “It doesn't end here.”
And this someone has existed in history. No one has ever made this claim except Christ, who said, "Look, death is real. I experienced it as you did. But it is not the end. Life goes on—a life that I live and give to everyone."
Historically speaking, I have found no one else who could face death this way. And all those I've met who face death with great energy are “children” begotten by the spirit of this man. Otherwise, the path is Saviano's: not hope in the face of death, but wisdom in dealing with death. Knowing how to prepare for it, accept it, pay for it—but not knowing how to face it as Christ did.
Unfortunately, I cannot quote more explicitly from a booklet written by a bishop in the Middle East, which tells wonderful stories of conversion. The booklet I mentioned circulates only clandestinely, as contraband, with names and places changed so the author cannot be traced. They are all stories of people in countries where it is forbidden to become Christian, who secretly find hope.
The most interesting story I've read so far is that of a dancer in a Middle Eastern country. One day, a car accident leaves him in a wheelchair. In his culture, this is seen as God's will, a curse he must accept because he deserved it. The man was terribly sad, torn between not wanting to blaspheme God and not being able to accept that God would want this for him. He was a brilliant dancer. Until, in the hospital, a nurse leaves a Gospel on his bedside table. He begins to read it and, as he later tells a priest he contacts in secret, he discovers another face of God: a God who, like him, ended up “in a wheelchair”—only His wheelchair was called the Cross. A God who carried that suffering and told him that not everything was over.
This man concludes his story by saying, “Before, I had a future, but I was unhappy. Now, I have no legs, but I am happy because I have found meaning in my suffering.”
For me, this is the only thing that can give hope in the face of death: someone who bends down from heaven to this earth and says, “Look, this earth is not the end, but only the beginning of what will be forever.” Someone who takes his greatness and bends it to my smallness, to bring me to live a life with him beyond death. This, fundamentally, is the Christian message. A man who comes to say to those who mourn, who are crippled, who are hungry and thirsty: “You are my friends, because you can understand the heavenly life I bring to this earth. And so do not weep; indeed, be blessed, because the gaze with which I already raise you up is only the beginning of what the fullness of life with me will be.”
To conclude, I always recount events that give me hope. The last is about a friend who lost her job and was in serious difficulty. This friend also suffers from an ear condition that causes sudden attacks of labyrinthitis, making her lose her balance. Her ENT specialist gave her this advice: "When you have these attacks, look at a fixed point. You'll find you can stand steady, and within two minutes, you'll regain your balance.”
Well, she told me, “When I lost my job and was struggling, without a partner, I began to pray, saying, ‘Thy will be done.’ But as soon as I said it, I would start to tremble, as if I were having an attack. Saying ‘thy will be done’ seemed to mean accepting that I would have to carry that uncertainty and pain with me forever. And in that moment, while everything was swaying, I remembered the specialist’s advice: ‘Look at a fixed point.’ I looked at the crucifix in my house and, keeping my gaze fixed on that point, I felt the fear recede."
That's what can give hope: someone who, from beyond the limit where everything seems to end, comes and tells you, “It doesn't end here.” And how does He do it? By embracing your suffering, sharing it, and becoming one with it.
Moderator: Well, thank you. So, I think I can summarize what you've said this way: hope is what you just pointed out. It is the fixed gaze—the gaze on a point that reawakens in us all that we are and all that we are made for, which is, in essence, life itself.
If hope has this form, then perhaps our greatest challenge isn't to be more intelligent or efficient, but to have our hearts and eyes wide open, ready to recognize this “point.” But where is this point in our lives? Where does it happen? The theologian Luigi Giussani said that the ultimate Truth—this point—can only be seen and recognized if one is attentive. The problem, then, is our attentiveness.
Let us hope, therefore, that we may be attentive, curious, and eager to intercept hope—this living point—wherever it appears, so that we can say, “It is possible.” And we can also “attach” ourselves to those who live this way.
Let's thank Don Pierluigi once again for the richness he has shared with us tonight.
The author has not reviewed this text. Transcription, translation, and editing by the Epochal Change Digital Cultural Center.
Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEf9Aa0FMdA
Songs: (*) Gli sbagli che fai - Vasco Rossi (The mistakes you make)
I spent an evening with myself And it was truly incredible I still haven't figured out if I'm back to normal, eh-eh-eh To tell the truth, I found two or three Really nice individuals And each one spoke to me inside my head, eh-eh-eh Always running, running, running away from what? Then asking themselves, asking themselves, always why, only to realize, in the end, that it's not always there, always taking, taking, just in case, trying to correct the mistakes you make, only to realize, in the end, that you know you'll do them again. I spent an evening with myself, and it was indescribable. I didn't understand which of the three was right, eh-eh-eh I couldn't even find a self that applied the usual rules And everything flowed lightly inside me, eh-eh-eh Always running, running, running away from what? Then asking yourself, asking yourself, always why, only to realize that in the end, it's not always there. Always taking, taking, just in case, trying to correct the mistakes you make, only to realize that in the end, you'll see that you'll learn from the mistakes you make. Take my hand and tell me that nothing is impossible. Always running, running, running away from what? Then asking yourself, always asking yourself why, only to realize that in the end, there isn't always something there. Always taking, taking, just in case. Trying to correct the mistakes you make, only to realize that in the end, you'll see that you'll learn from the mistakes you make. You'll learn from the mistakes you make.
(**) La sua figura - Giuni Russo (His figure)
Summer fades silently Golden leaves drip down I open my arms to its weary decline And leave your light in me Shooting stars cross my thoughts Desires slip away Put me as a sign on your heart I need you You know that the pain of love cannot be cured Except with the presence of his figure Kiss me with the mouth of love Pick me up from the ground like a flower Like a tired child, now I want to rest And I leave my life to you You know me, you can't doubt Amid a thousand worries, I didn't go away Stay here by my side, touching my hand And I leave my life to you You know that the pain of love cannot be cured Except by the presence of his figure Silent music is the dawn Solitude that restores and enamors Like a tired child, now I want to rest And I leave my life to you I miss the presence of his figure
