Pain makes the flower grow, love brings it close. Rain, wind, and time shape life. Like a flower, life returns, though something dies. A cycle of love, loss, and renewal.
love
time
death
beauty
pain
flower
nature
life
loss
growth
transformation
farewell
renewal
cycles
resilience
Story behind the song
Gardens always stretch beyond the rusty gates. Flowers always grow as if they feed on their own pain. Their roots intertwine in the dry soil, sucking up any moisture that the earth promises but rarely delivers. Each flower rises to the sky with trembling petals, hesitating between living and surrendering to oblivion.
The wind comes from far away, crossing dry fields and forgotten cities. Its breath carries dust and pieces of memories that no one wants anymore. It slides through empty alleys and knocks against rusty gates, trying to open paths that were closed long ago.
Along with the wind, longing arrives on this dry morning, silent as always. It makes no fuss; it just settles into the empty chair in the living room, crossing its legs in a comfortable way, as if it already knows it will be there for a long time.
Outside, the sun burns mercilessly, making the leaves curl and fall prematurely. Flowers know this dance well, growing, burning, dying and being reborn. Among them, some, even withered and brittle, smile at the horizon as if the future held some redeeming promise.
But today in the garden, the wind finds brittle flowers, bent by thirst and the pain of existing without hope. It blows over them, in an almost affectionate gesture, but the withered petals fall to the ground as if giving up for good. It hesitates, then, feeling guilty for tearing away what little is left of those fragile lives.
I recognize this wind of longing immediately. Its presence is almost palpable, weighing in the air, filling the space with memories that I have already tried to forget. The wind says nothing, longing says nothing, but its eyes are full of faces that will never return.
Every time the wind blows, the dry petals come loose and float like worn-out memories, crossing the gate and mixing with the dust of the road. The flowers know that the world is made of steel and stone, where life passes too quickly to notice the fragile colors of a forgotten garden.
They approach slowly, as if they know that the whole world is watching them with fear and fascination. The black clouds dance in the sky with a silent grandeur, covering the sunlight and swallowing the blue in their dark entrails.
No one knows where they come from or where they are going. They just gather in thick, dense masses, as if they were plotting something dark. Sometimes, a thunder escapes from their deep throats, announcing their arrival with a roar that shakes windows and hearts.
The whole city looks up, waiting for the sentence that those heavy shadows will bring. The children fall silent, and the birds disappear from the squares, sensing that something bad is approaching. The black clouds do not care about the terror they cause. For them, the dance is enough; a slow waltz that creeps across the horizon, staining everything with its suffocating presence.
But there is one of them, older and heavier than the others, who knows the truth. Knows that they are not evil, just inevitable. Their dark color is not a choice; it is the weight of everything they carry. The vapor of dry rivers, the sigh of burned fields, the echo of ancient storms. They simply exist, and their destiny is to spill what they carry onto the cracked earth.
Then, as if unable to hold its own weight any longer, one of them opens, and the rain falls like a scream held back for centuries. The others follow suit, crying rivers that flood the streets and clean the dust-covered stones. People hide under fragile roofs, and the clouds weep until their own forms dissolve into the air.
It is like the rain falls, heavy and unexpected. The wind has not seen it for so long that it almost does not recognize it. It comes down hard, as if it were rushing to wash the whole world at once. Its cold drops touch the flowers, break worn-out stems and run down the dry earth that finally opens up to drink from that rare storm.
I pretend not to see it, busying myself with banal tasks, but the [...]
Lyrics
It's like pain that the flower grows,
So much in love, it arrives behind the door,
Closer to our eyes, welcome: in your hands
Will have your world better, beyond
The purest scent of leaves, good weather.
To softly watch and so cold,
Every time the sun burns,
Every time in which it doesn't die
At every instant of life.
Rain and wind, it's only like a flower
That pain returns,
Smiling today so far from the sun,
A sweeter world in us,
Or a lighter body in the air,
Until a heavy man arises here upon his feet,
Until he doesn't deny to friends, it was the one,
It was the action of time and,
Whether modern, or even good,
Almost common, sublime, it's coming
The morning.
And it's like a flower, that the flower returns,
And arrives alive in the streets.
Fading the pain here,
Almost not worth the good humor,
Every hardship.
Or always at hand, never certainty,
Almost at hand, real things.
Real, knows well two presences,
Or, in the hands, flowers.
Better proven to feel,
Rain and wind,
It's only like a flower that life returns,
Because something dies here.
Always know it well, should prove
Life and not to live so much.
Just like a dead flower,
Imagine, black, the sky where it's delivered;
Or, a hundred songs on earth,
Show to be made of love,
Just pick the flower with the hands:
And blue, maybe black,
It might be, gray, dead flower,
It's like saying goodbye, today, still.