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One more time you find yourself huddled in silence. |
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Nicotine mingles with a mimic's tear, tarnishing moments forlon... |
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Remember the stages that you were compelled to wander |
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Where ideas were devised, where the phantom of fame approached like a brief encounter. |
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Try to evoke the day... |
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But memories are cold comfort for the mourning result of a long-forgotten cause. |
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Passionless words defy the stage no more |
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There's no applause, just a drunkard asking for encore |
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A silent audience of dust and desperation |
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As you remember certain faces that once engaged these empty places. |
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With the fading light came desperate thoughts, as if the ghost of an urge rode a blatant breeze. |
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And the wet ink on the paper blurred under your tears, just like water's clearness in the rush of the spray... |
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Try to escape the day... |
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And after all you will find out that it's all the same how many footprints you've left in the soil. |
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Empty eyes defy these empty halls |
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Empty faces examine empty walls |
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Empty words thrown in empty streams |
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Empty places are the end of empty dreams. |
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To be a whisper on the breeze, to be a stranger on violent seas, |
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To see the world through orphaned eyes could be a mission |
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Behind tangerine skies. |
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For there's no importance in a dream of posthume fame |
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And I don't want to be a fugitive repatriated, watching these empty places... |
