When I'll Be Sixty-Four Your Hands for Me
When I'll Be Sixty-Four—Your Hands for Me
I hope your hands will always be for me to hold tight in my palms,
And if they'll be a little sweaty—you could overlook this sign,
This sign of uncontrolled joy that flows from me like a magic and warm river,
I hope your hands will never leave me—not even when we'll be old and tired.
I hope your eyes will always be for me to love them with all my being,
And if they shed a few shy tears—you could let me kiss them all,
To wipe them with my gentle lips until they disappear in the air between us two alone,
I hope your eyes will always remain open to me with their emerald light.
I hope your ears will always be for my words—only for mine,
And if they'll be rare sometimes or occasional—you could let me whisper to you,
To whisper to you meaningless sweet nothings all day and all night without stopping,
I hope your ears will always listen to my voice even when we're in silence.
I hope your smile will always be there waiting to shine upon me,
With love and tenderness—and you could save your smile when I sleep deeply,
For the glory of morning when I wake up and the first image is your bright face,
I hope your lips will always be waiting for kisses that sing songs of love.
And if I rush out the door still chewing breakfast in crazy haste,
I hope you'll want to look in my eyes—to speak in my ears with gentle voice,
To hold my calloused hands—to kiss me until I melt completely into you,
When I'll be sixty-four—I hope you'll still be here loving me the same as now.
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