May it be...
I must refuse death
And burn the tears of the bleeding songs
And strip the olive tree of all its fake branches
For if I was singing for joy
Behind the eyelids of scared eyes
Then because the storm
Promised me wine
And new toasts (celebratory, not bread)
And rainbows
And because the storm
Swept away the sound of idle sparrows
And the naked branches
From the stems of the standing tress

And may it be...
I must be proud of you oh wound of the city
You, my portrait, flashed in our sad nights
The street's face frowned
So you protect me from the shadow and glances of rancor

I will sing for joy
Behind the eyelids of scared eyes
Since the storm has [bad word] up in our country
It has promised me wine and rainbows