Music : Conscience
Texts : Nicolas Moulard
There are the immobile red trees,
Closely in the mirror,
Lost in the white nights lit
Under the twin blue full moons,
Which grow and vanish
Behind our curtains of each morning.
There is a half-second before tears,
An overwhelming too-sudden bundling
Of the things we canít share
Because we donít own them.
There is this clever concept,
Which doesnít need wood to burn
But the spark of insecurity to be born,
Fireless smoke fueled with air,
With the buzzing rumor
Of our talked out fear,
Our Invented outlet
To these feelings, undealt with,
That shine the darkness
On our ignorance.
There is then the echo in my throat
When there is nothing to swallow
But the dryness of frustration
Dripping in to tickle and erode pride,
That keeps saying with a smirk
On every empty sip I gasp:
You have no idea
What itís all about.
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