I know, it cannot be love.
I know, I know, I know
that words, light as feathers of dove,
will melt like the last winter snow.

but who of us wants to deceive
the other in order to fly?
and why does heart want to believe
that next day will not make us cry?

'cause wings, that take us above,
become soon so useless to grow.
I know, it cannot be love.
I know. I know. I know?