A car of hand, the trunks of the trees, the firewood on the ground. The yellow bar, a cat at the window, the thousand and one flowers of all colors and the breadcrumbs. Home, this is my home, where I lay my head, where time is not in a hurry and what is there, is my home. The ax and the shovel, the tractor in the morning, the stubborn reeds, the demanding rail, the fruit on the tree, the garden goes and comes, the chickens and the eggs, the rogue banana, a mushy balloon and the cold of the crack. Home, this is my home, where I lay my head, where time is not in a hurry and what is there, is my home. The vertical piano, the old double bass, the tarola pump, the effect and the echo, tapes and cassettes and cables and jacks, guitars to the wet, songs to sing. Home, this is my home, where I lay my head, where time is not in a hurry and what is there, is my home. The sand of the living room, the eternal Christmas, the silvers and the silver, the dogs barking, the drunkard at night calling, the moon and the stars and whatever else you want, are waiting for me if you are there, if you are there. Home, this is my home, where I lay my head, where time is not in a hurry. Home, this is my home, where I lay my head, where time is not in a hurry and what is there, is my home.