Fond de tiroir...

Cela fait bien longtemps

Que la plume et la nuit
Ne se sont plus écrit
Cela fait bien des ans

Que n'hurle plus le vent
Dans les plaines où rit
L'ombre de mon ennui
Cela fait bien du sang
Que centaures fuyants
N'entendent plus mes cris
Que brume de l'oubli
M'estompe lentement
Cela fait bien des champs
Que perdue je franchis

M'éxilant loin de lui
Cela fait bien des gens
Aveuglés et vieillis
Qui, brisés, me supplient
D'apprivoiser le temps

Cela fait bien des ans
Que vainement je gis

Au pieds de cette vie

Cela fait bien longtemps

Décembre 07.

Losing my religion ...

Oh, life is bigger. It's bigger than you. And you are not me. The lengths that I will go to. The distance in your eyes. Oh no, I've said too much. I set it up.

That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight. Losing my religion. Trying to keep up with you. And I don't know if I can do it. Oh no, I've said too much. I haven't said enough. I thought that I heard you laughing. I thought that I heard you sing. I think I thought I saw you try.
Every whisper. Of every waking hour. I'm choosing my confessions. Trying to keep an eye on you. Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool. Oh no, I've said too much. I set it up.

Consider this. Consider this. The hint of the century. Consider this. The slip that brought me. To my knees failed. What if all these fantasies. Come flailing around. Now I've said too much. I thought that I heard you laughing. I thought that I heard you sing. I think I thought I saw you try.
But that was just a dream. That was just a dream. But that was just a dream. Try, cry, why try?

That was just a dream. Just a dream, just a dream. Dream.