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 can 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
Late in the year

At the dawn of an ordinary Sunday
I remember the taste of you, sweet in my mouth
Late in the year