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A Fall Sunday

We will lower our voices a little.
We will be moved,
make efforts.
We will get caught up in a game.
To say everything,
to kiss hard.
 
We will turn our heads
to see the people.
The time outside
like a festive tomorrow.
To say everything,
then escape our faults.
 
A fall Sunday like that,
when the blood red and golden leaves
shatter,
when the smell of the bark makes us remember
Alcala.
A Sunday like that.
 
We will take the time
to get better acquainted.
You will talk to me about before,
about your Spain, about your childhood.
 
How were the people
In the country of which I know the language?
How was Mom born?
Frank Dali, your trembling hands.
 
[Repeated chorus that was omitted in the original:]
A fall Sunday like that,
when the blood red and golden leaves
shatter,
when the smell of the bark makes us remember
Alcala.
A Sunday like that.
 
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Un dimanche d'automne

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