| A string of night lights stretches somewhere,
|
| Maybe it would be necessary to come into the world another,
|
| But she's too late.
|
| The time to choose has long been left in a dream, but
|
| This is her movie, and whoever puts it on,
|
| Everything is already written and predetermined
|
| A small, you know, auteur film.
|
| How easily the night finds an explanation for everything,
|
| Something imperceptibly repeats exactly the same,
|
| And yet he ...
|
| Too bad time doesn't rewind
|
| In editing, but this is his movie,
|
| And how it happens there
|
| We know and don't know, we can't understand,
|
| This is, you know, auteur cinema.
|
| At least for a moment it's easier if you're around,
|
| But ships sail forever into the distance,
|
| For one day maybe
|
| For just one night,
|
| So that the dawn takes a step to the ground.
|
| Rolling somewhere, completing its circle, the moon,
|
| Everything is so amazingly changing around,
|
| Both he and she know...
|
| Something must be said now, but
|
| This is a movie about them
|
| And the one who takes it off
|
| Solar frames are knocking on the window,
|
| Life is a small author's movie.
|
| At least for a moment it's easier if you're around,
|
| But ships sail forever into the distance,
|
| For one day maybe
|
| For just one night,
|
| So that the dawn takes a step to the ground.
|
| A string of night lights stretches somewhere.
|
| Fire, fire. |