The shuddering wind covers my spirit and covers my skin
Months ago, warm, it would comfort me,
But summer has ended Anselm, and our old home is lost.
Tell me, tell me of this place we are going, Anz,
Why must we leave, leave the city?
You ask why? And about the place we will go?
Go to the old withered house, far outside the city,
My father’s mother’s land, bequeathed to him and now to us,
This is why. This modest estate is what we have left.
But there are some neighbours, here and there, Alex,
And the city it is, not quite too far.
I can’t take isolation, Anz, I can’t take it again.
Tell me, tell me it isn’t forever.
Tell me what we have, tell me we have wealth left somewhere,
And that we will buy a new house some time…please tell me.
Alexandre, we may!
—Once the situation is settled and the season has turned.
But presently, that withered rural house is all that we have.
Help me restore it, if you have the strength,
Our child will grow here, free to laugh and to shout;
We can compose and play here, disturbing no one.
—I can tell you it isn’t forever,
Not set or determined, in stone or the stars.
It will be a different life, our life for now.
But in a few years —or yes; a few months,
You’re right, we can return to the city.
We can undo whatever we’ve made here.
But my withered old house,
My father’s mother’s old land,
I want to hold onto it, even if we do leave it.
—Oh look Alexandre my dear,
—We’ve arrived…oh my.
…What do you think?