Eclaire ce que tu aimes sans toucher à son ombre.
Christian Bobin.
Broken windows don't give you a reason to leave,
but you still cheated on me,
stop to conspire, cease to kick;
will your vague love be the captain of my shit?,
that's the only thing you have to take in;
now my face fades,
the mirror reflects nothing but a ghost's trace,
a thrill runs across the place,
there is an emptiness,
that only you can chase away, illuminate.
II
Picture this:
seventeen degrees,
the clouds shall soon fall bit by bit on me;
I go down Columbus Avenue,
a couple of cognacs upstairs the Vesuvio bar,
waiting for Mrs. Wong to open her Mandala bazaar,
and confirms me that you're gone for good,
which will probably kills me too.