𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗩𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲.
I never thought my world would crumble at the hands of a man like Alessandro Rossi-a 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 draped in silk suits and ruthlessness. One moment, I was Yasenia Fraga, daughter of the...
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"Se la neve coprisse le mie montagne (If snow were to cover my mountains)
Trovereicalore tra le tue braccia (I would find warmth in your arms)
Se i venti ribelli mi portassero via (If rebellious winds were to carry me away)
Troverei sempre un modo per tornare da te (I would always find a way back to you)
Ma mi cercheresti e mi troveresti? (But would you look for me and find me?)
Vorrestitirarmifuori dalla tomba della mia paura? (Would you dig me out of the grave of my fear?)
Se non fossi altro che fumo, troppo scuro e andato tra le nuvole (If I were nothing but smoke, too dark and gone into the clouds)
Mi troveresti e mi ameresticomunque? (Would you find me and still love me?)
Mi troveresti e mi ameresti ancora... me? (Would you find me and still love me .. me?)
Se fossi una tomba non reclamata, indegna di una lapide (If I were an unclaimed grave, unworthy of a headstone)
Se fossi una capannaabbandonata in mezzo alla foresta profonda, tutta sola (If I were a cabin abandoned amid the deep forest, all alone)
Mi cercheresti e mi troveresti? (Would you look for me and find me?)
Mi cercheresti e mi troveresti... me? (Would you look for me and find me .. me?)"
My mom's voice lingered in my head, soft and bittersweet, like the melody she always hummed. I could almost see her in the kitchen, wearing that white summer dress she loved, mixing up the batter for her famous Cassata Siciliana. She'd bake that cake every time we had guests, and I'd sit on a stool by the counter, mesmerized by her. She swayed gently as she sang, a picture of effortless beauty and grace.
"Mamá, por que é tan triste a canción? (Mom, why's the song so sad?)" I'd ask, fiddling with a curl.
"Abbiamo detto che stiamo parlando in italiano, (We said we're speaking in Italian)" she'd reply, waving an accusing wooden spoon at me, her eyes gleaming with playfulness.
"Pero mamá, o meu italiano é unha merda! (But Mom, my Italian sucks!)" I'd protest, stubbornly sticking to my Galician.
"Questo è il punto. Ci stiamo esercitando! O vuoi metterti in imbarazzo davanti ai tuoi cugini in Italia quest'estate? (That's the point. We're practicing! Or do you want to embarrass yourself in front of your cousins in Italy this summer?)" She'd cup my face and kiss my forehead, her touch full of love. Somehow, she always got me to agree.
