Loneliness has gone quiet,
At the coming of a new sunrise,
On the little edge of the city,
Spring sleeps within it,
With its eyes of April,
The hills flourish, their wheat towards the sun
And lay over gold,
In festive farewells.
Tell me Alina: What evil mark
Burns in the blood of a Hebrew woman?
You come out of the aljama1 singing,
With a fistful of sand,
You wander without looking back,
There will be no one to light the fire in your home,
Follow the sign of chance,
Of the sephardic moon.
Where are the keys of Spain,
Who will open their doors?
Where it keeps a soulless town,
And all of the hours gone,
They come in twos,
In carts, crying over their wounds of love,
Lost in the eyes of the sephardic moon.