At the dawn of an ordinary Sunday I remember the taste of you, sweet in my mouth, Late in the year. And in the stillness of the Oriente rainfall I remember the warmth of you, still in my arms, Late, late in the year.
I will bring to you flowers in the night Soft as my trembling fingers touch you, love, I can offer you wine and candlelight If only my aching fingers scratch you, love Late in the year. Late in the year