A nice song must always have a lovely name,
I usually name it after the woman who inspired it
and -oh!- you feel that life is different
and her look is as passionate
as burning wood,
salt on a wound,
four consecutive rows
or our wedding under the sun;
and I don’t know anymore if it’s by nature
or because of how much my mother fought for me,
but there are no longer birds around my head
or castles or princesses
or that allergy to strawberries
or memories of you.

From my window flowers are nicer
you’re my Cinderella and stars are coloured
and from my window flamenco singers still cry
since that sad afternoon when art died with Lola Flores.

A nice song must always have a lovely end,
it can be happy or so sad that it makes us cry,
as cries that angel in the clink -oh!- who is serving a sentence
for clapping when the wind dances under your skirt
the jealousies and loves of he who lives and dies by the sword,
and a king said that money doesn’t bring happiness,
and I say that it’s such a similar feeling
that however much I try it,
no matter it’s sunny or windy,
no matter I’m crying or happy,
I can’t distinguish.

From my window flowers are nicer
you’re my Cinderella and stars are coloured
and from my window flamenco singers still cry
since that sad afternoon when art died with Lola Flores.

And they say and they say round there -oh!- that the roses are red
-oh!- that love isn’t buyable and your body is for me.

From my window flowers are nicer
you’re my Cinderella and stars are coloured
and from my window flamenco singers still cry
since that sad afternoon when art died with Lola Flores.

From my window flowers are nicer
you’re my Cinderella and stars are coloured
and from my window flamenco singers still cry
since that sad afternoon when art died with Lola Flores.

From my Window by Melendi