| 作词 : Swano, Swanö | |
| Here I am in my chamber | |
| In my room full of words | |
| Always searching for patterns that will give life to a line | |
| My poetry is frozen though it's beginning to melt | |
| The solid form is changing to the liquid of thoughts written down | |
| Sentence after sentence in a language not mine | |
| Loss of point no direction | |
| A jigsaw where no pieces fit | |
| I envy the writers and the 痤錿s who know the way to the places were poetry grow | |
| There is no harvest if you never sow | |
| So I beg. steal and borrow wherever | |
| I go If words were like music this would be a book | |
| But this is not even worth the time that it took | |
| Not even a novel just a self-pity tale written by someone that always will fail | |
| So very fragile inside | |
| That's why | |
| I hide in the empty phrases |
| zuo ci : Swano, Swan | |
| Here I am in my chamber | |
| In my room full of words | |
| Always searching for patterns that will give life to a line | |
| My poetry is frozen though it' s beginning to melt | |
| The solid form is changing to the liquid of thoughts written down | |
| Sentence after sentence in a language not mine | |
| Loss of point no direction | |
| A jigsaw where no pieces fit | |
| I envy the writers and the cuo hu s who know the way to the places were poetry grow | |
| There is no harvest if you never sow | |
| So I beg. steal and borrow wherever | |
| I go If words were like music this would be a book | |
| But this is not even worth the time that it took | |
| Not even a novel just a selfpity tale written by someone that always will fail | |
| So very fragile inside | |
| That' s why | |
| I hide in the empty phrases |
| zuò cí : Swano, Swan | |
| Here I am in my chamber | |
| In my room full of words | |
| Always searching for patterns that will give life to a line | |
| My poetry is frozen though it' s beginning to melt | |
| The solid form is changing to the liquid of thoughts written down | |
| Sentence after sentence in a language not mine | |
| Loss of point no direction | |
| A jigsaw where no pieces fit | |
| I envy the writers and the cuó hu s who know the way to the places were poetry grow | |
| There is no harvest if you never sow | |
| So I beg. steal and borrow wherever | |
| I go If words were like music this would be a book | |
| But this is not even worth the time that it took | |
| Not even a novel just a selfpity tale written by someone that always will fail | |
| So very fragile inside | |
| That' s why | |
| I hide in the empty phrases |
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