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Little months little smokes |
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And oblivion in a wool dress |
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In a door opens tenderly |
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Near a wall where the wind is born |
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Near the jolly garden |
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Where saints and angels |
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Are afraid of the seasons |
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The alleys have no names |
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They are the hours or the years |
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I stroll leisurely |
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Dressed in a cement overcoat |
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And a hat of black straw |
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I don't remember |
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If it's nice out |
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I walk smoking |
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And I smoke walking |
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Easily |
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Every once in a while I tell myself |
|
It's time to stop |
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And I continue walking |
|
I tell myself |
|
I have to get some air |
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I have to look at the clouds |
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And breathe in a lung full |
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I have to see the flies fly |
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And take a little exercise |
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I shouldn't smoke so much |
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I tell myself also |
|
Calculate |
|
I tell myself again |
|
I have a headache |
|
My life is a drop of water on my eyelid |
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And I'm no longer twenty |
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Continue |
|
The songs are songs |
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And the days days |
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I no longer have one shred of respect for myself |
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But I see no hoodlums |
|
Who smoke the same cigarettes as me |
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And who are just as stupid as me |
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I'm pretty content |
|
Without really knowing why |
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It doesn't suffice to speak of the sun |
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The stars |
|
The sea and rivers |
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Blood eyes hands |
|
It is necessary quite often |
|
To speak of other things |
|
We know that there are very beautiful countries |
|
With very handsome men |
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With no less charming women, |
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But all that isn't really sufficient |
|
But dizzying void |
|
Which rings and bays |
|
Makes the head bow |
|
We look and we see |
|
Again many other things |
|
Which are always the same |
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Innumerable |
|
Identical |
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And over there simply |
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Someone goes by |
|
Simple as hello |
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And everything starts all over once again |
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I read in the stars the good will of my friends |
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In a river I love one hand |
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I listen the flowers sing |
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There are the goodbyes of birds |
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A cry falls like a fruit |
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My God my god |
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I will be accordingly always the same |
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My head in my hands |
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And my hands in my head |
