2019.03.14.
Ballad for a thin woman
The sun comes up and still the coldand around the worlds I look for you in vain
among cobblestones of horror and tired houses
and doors who have forgotten their voice.
My steps are heard at the mute dawn
and there are no rabbits on your balcony
and loneliness, my cat on the threshold
of a cathedral of dreams...
How I'd love to write a song
that would make you crazy
and fly you three years backwards
thin woman
May the dead movement of days not murder
your clean verses at the cemetery
searching among heavy gravestones
for the name of the name that had your laughter.
A cynical sky of grey bowed maps
covers the square like a ceiling.
This morning, there's no tomorrow/morning anymore here
under the broken cheeks of April...
How I'd love to write a song
that would make me another person
or myself three years better
thin woman.
How much is left from your window to that sacred Thursday?
that miracle on the road
with the thumb parallel to the smile
and you trembling (for) me on the side
How I'd love to write a flight
to make a song return
that could chase away our forgetfulness and the end
thin woman.