Empty streets and silhouettes,
Cold shoulders and cigarettes,
You play your guitar on the balcony,
Trying to make me sing, trying to make me sing.
But I don’t want you to see me through,
And silence is much too revealing.
And all the poets from your wall.
And all the late afternoons and evening calls.
Red wine in cold wind,
With all of the times you made me sing.
Because all the poets from my wall
Can’t seem to make me stand so tall. (…)
For there’s no pink moon that’ll make me stay.
Time means nothing when you’re young,
And you have it all, you have it all.
Misplaced faces in the wrong places.
And all the records that we had,
And the great classics that we read,
And the black and white movies we saw,
And all the references we made,
As if we were living in a different time,
Or roaming Paris after midnight.
(…)
And all the poets from our wall,
Are leaving signs of when we’ll fall.
