There are five hundred steps and five more
that lead to the dark little cell
which houses the trace of the saint.
You cross the gigantic rocks,
rocks, washed by the tears
of lovers through thousands of years.
Five hundred steps and five more —
you would be weary and torn
but for the guide who knows well
how to lead your heart on,
You'll see: the rocks turn to sand
You'll see: the thorns turn to roses.
Don't listen to the crows of despair,
don't listen to those who don't know
that to live is to die
and to love is to burn
There are five hundred steps and five more,
and the end is a rose.




Close this window