Row upon Row They Grew…

Every night I go to Tijuana,
to Doña Ilona’s terrace,
and there with the people of the border
we sing the songs of freedom
of the clear celestial

And every morning I wake up
under the two pines by old Stavri’s house
and under another blue sky
with the cold grass beneath my head

and it wasn’t the songs of freedom,
and the clear celestial I don’t remember,
it was only my dreams,
and my eyes in the distance.