What is left of our loves, what is left of these beautiful days? A photo, an old photo of my youth What is left of the tickets, of the months of April, of the appointments A memory that pursues me, non-stop Happiness, fame, hair in the wind, kisses, happiness, moving dreams What is left of all this, tell me A small village, an old bell tower, a landscape so well hidden And in a cloud, the dear face of my past Tonight, the wind knocking on my door Tells me of a dead love, in front of the extinguished fire Tonight, it's an autumnal song, in the house that whistles And I think of the distant days What is left of our loves, what is left of these beautiful days? A photo, an old photo of my youth What is left of the tickets, of the months of April, of the appointments A memory that pursues me, non-stop Happiness, fame, hair in the wind, kisses, happiness, moving dreams What is left of all this, tell me A small village, an old bell tower, a landscape so well hidden And in a cloud, the dear face of my past Thanks for watching!