She's desirous!
Sure, she's desirous to the redeemer,
To the heaven's paths,
To her singing angels!
She turned her face kindly
And raised her hand,
Her engagements in this world are over!
They offered her a bunch in Calcutta,
Its flowers picked from their fields.
They offered her the glow in their minds,
Loved to rise her, but couldn't.
She died!
She died!
Teresa, the mother and saint,
Died!
Died!
A convent is her palm!
A chapel is her heart!
They folded their statures and broke,
Their folly outcries exploded
And when they buried her in their eyes,
They felt they were buried!
They stood in line,
Their hands waving,
Like shadows with no strength!
They missed the one, who has pity on them,
The one, who planted God in their eyes,
The passing dream,
The rose,
The ever lighting candle.
Mother of the gutters
Died!
Died!
The Virgin's daughter
Died!
Died!
With their dreams' cloths they wrapped her
And with tears, they erased their days.
Agnes has chosen a difficult life,
A life that impressed the impossibility!
She got tired, sick, tolerated expatriation,
Her cross is never been carried before!
The Voice was telling her: Keep going,
Your suffering will establish your abbey.
She died!
She died!
The poor people's tears are wildly agitated.
She died!
She died!
Their voices sob and ring:
We're Albania, meet us.
Your mum and dad lived in us.
O you saint, whom we never forget,
Wherever you lead us, we go.
What are we without you?
Sick,
And your love is healing us,
Without knowing how to protect you!
Poor,
But, you love us,
In your eyes' abbey you hid us.
In this world that doesn't know its devoutness,
We'll be suffering without you.
*******
Sure, she's desirous to the redeemer,
To the heaven's paths,
To her singing angels!
She turned her face kindly
And raised her hand,
Her engagements in this world are over!
They offered her a bunch in Calcutta,
Its flowers picked from their fields.
They offered her the glow in their minds,
Loved to rise her, but couldn't.
She died!
She died!
Teresa, the mother and saint,
Died!
Died!
A convent is her palm!
A chapel is her heart!
They folded their statures and broke,
Their folly outcries exploded
And when they buried her in their eyes,
They felt they were buried!
They stood in line,
Their hands waving,
Like shadows with no strength!
They missed the one, who has pity on them,
The one, who planted God in their eyes,
The passing dream,
The rose,
The ever lighting candle.
Mother of the gutters
Died!
Died!
The Virgin's daughter
Died!
Died!
With their dreams' cloths they wrapped her
And with tears, they erased their days.
Agnes has chosen a difficult life,
A life that impressed the impossibility!
She got tired, sick, tolerated expatriation,
Her cross is never been carried before!
The Voice was telling her: Keep going,
Your suffering will establish your abbey.
She died!
She died!
The poor people's tears are wildly agitated.
She died!
She died!
Their voices sob and ring:
We're Albania, meet us.
Your mum and dad lived in us.
O you saint, whom we never forget,
Wherever you lead us, we go.
What are we without you?
Sick,
And your love is healing us,
Without knowing how to protect you!
Poor,
But, you love us,
In your eyes' abbey you hid us.
In this world that doesn't know its devoutness,
We'll be suffering without you.
*******
