Now, I no longer write stories,
nor cross out the days on the calendar,
nor do I dream that I am imprisoned,
in the shadow of a fenced garden.
I no longer walk through the market
nor listen to what old people talk,
on a bench sitting,
I will never sit with them again.
Now I spend every afternoon thinking,
that the phone doesn't burn, that it doesn't ring,
that it doesn't interrupt dinner, that it doesn't burn,
that it tells me that I left, he's dying,
save me if you can.
The photographs no longer whisper to me
the screams of his silence were extinguished,
of his melancholy, no more
I no longer want any more dreams ± os.
Now I spend every afternoon thinking,
that the phone doesn't burn, that it doesn't ring,
that it doesn't interrupt dinner, that it doesn't burn,
what does it tell me? Let me leave, he's dying,
save me if you can.
It doesn't ring,
it doesn't interrupt dinner, it doesn't burn,
it tells me to get out,
And I close all the doors because I don't go out
and I have the mornings just for myself,
they forgot about me, these people from hell.
And how much is the price?
The clouds of failure do not stop raining,
the guns of loneliness fire,
I no longer appear in the guide or on the street of the forgotten.
I will scream a little more, my throat will bleed,
the wall with a thousand prints of my crazy head,
now you can't come in, I'm tidying up my house
I'm tidying up my house ,
I am organizing my house,
I am organizing my house.
I will scream a little more, my throat will bleed,
the wall with a thousand prints of my crazy head,
now you can't come in, I'm tidying up my house.