| Confused hours in the night, melancholy is not a state of mind
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| Others' lives are broken and your neighbor seems to no longer exist
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| You dress a little in silence, you have the sweet illusion of being alone
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| They are cars that pass by or is it the wind, or are your thoughts lifted up in flight
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| Your thoughts a little drunk, dancing in the streets go away
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| They slipped out of your hand and the day now seems so far away
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| And the day now seems so far away ...
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| Morning or night, you have lost time, melancholy seems to touch it
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| But maybe it's time for advent and you call irony to help you
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| And maybe there is someone who is dying now and maybe there is someone who is now being born
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| Someone commits a crime of honor, the whores walk along the avenues
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| Bagasce are your memories that disturb you between songs and wine
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| That harass you slowly and the day now seems so far away
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| And the day now seems so far away ...
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| Morning or night, what does it matter? |
| Days are distracted clouds
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| I will strike the hour at your door and the clock is your blood beating
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| When the time comes to leave, the time will have the same color
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| It always seems a little bit like dying in the heroic moment of love ...
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| If you laugh or cry it is always the same, things in the memory then fade away
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| The sacred will join the profane and the day now seems so far away
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| And the day now seems so far away ...
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| Morning or night, inside and out, are you certain or are you looking for consolation?
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| Are they black and white, are they colors or ambiguous faces of your prison?
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| You always look for what is far from you, then you say: "Everything is relative"
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| But the irony and the pain say in vain that you are certain only that you are alive
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| But there is still time to think, to curse and to pour the wine
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| To cry, laugh and play and the day seems so close now
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| And the day now seems so close
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| And the day now seems so close
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| And the day now seems so close ... |