When I was a child
I was dreaming of run into a pharmacist
which could create a potion
to make me fall in love with her.

Make a magic potion for me,
my lovely pharmacist,
and put in it your eyes, your hair,
your mouth, your hands.
But don’t care about love:
I’ll put it by myself
along with the way to repair
that damn broken shell.

Some time ago
I finally met a pharmacist.
She made the potion
and I fell in love with her.

Make a magic potion for me,
my sweet pharmacist,
and put in it your eyes, your hair,
your mouth, your hands.
But don’t care about love:
I’ll put it by myself
along with the way to repair
that damn broken shell.

Her potion has now become a deadly poison
slowly killing me
but before I die
I’ll tell her, with my slight last breath, once again:

Make a magic potion for me,
my beautiful pharmacist,
and put in it your eyes, your hair,
your mouth, your hands.
But don’t care about love:
I’ll put it by myself
along with the way to repair
that damn broken shell.

The way to repair
that damn broken shell…