the words are waiting
in the dusty library
for eternity
the words are waiting
in the dusty library
for eternity
you are hearing stories
that you weren't even listening to
with an attentive ear
belated tears
between the porcelain trinkets
"how much for the cup?"
in the strange light
of late afternoon
then you resume your tasks
of the day and of the evening
you remember all the confidences
you did not want to receive
here will be new beginnings
some sort of prayers
not even kneeling in the sand
and some Thursdays with cold hands
a past, a present
in the dim light of some
fragile nights
a returning trip
and open windows
if we were to start again
we should above all
recognise one another when
opening the door
on a moon almost full
of grace and light
the dark voices
don't let them slip away
under your feet
like a dawn
the day is waking up, again!
a ray of sunshine
a kind of joy
I'm not talking about a good conscience
or strong emotions
what I mean is a hand, shaking
on the door handle
a consciousness of living
in the moment