Sweep me away, world, and I'll have memories.
Thirty girls with opaque bodies,
thirty girls who in the imagination are goddesses,
draw near the man at rest in the little valley of lunacy.
The man in question is gambling fervently.
He plays against himself and wins.
The thirty girls quickly tire of this.
Gambling's caresses are not those of love,
and the sight isn't nearly as charming, seductive, and agreeable.
I'm talking about thirty girls with opaque bodies
and one happy gambler.
There is also, in a city of wool and feathers,
a bird on the back of a sheep.
In fables, the sheep leads the bird to paradise.
There are also personified centuries,
the grandeur of present centuries,
the dizziness of forbidden years and lost fruits.
Sweep me away, memories,
and I'll have eyes as round as the world.
Thirty girls with opaque bodies,
draw near the man at rest in the little valley of lunacy.
The man in question is gambling fervently.
He plays against himself and wins.
The thirty girls quickly tire of this.
Gambling's caresses are not those of love,
and the sight isn't nearly as charming, seductive, and agreeable.
I'm talking about thirty girls with opaque bodies
and one happy gambler.
There is also, in a city of wool and feathers,
a bird on the back of a sheep.
In fables, the sheep leads the bird to paradise.
There are also personified centuries,
the grandeur of present centuries,
the dizziness of forbidden years and lost fruits.
Sweep me away, memories,
and I'll have eyes as round as the world.
