Tenderness, nostalgia
Regret, poetry
How many things you are this evening
That you are far away and no longer think of me
I'm sick now
But I don't care about getting better, you know
It's the most sublime pain
The one that makes me suffer

Always, always
Almost until becoming nothing
Deceiving myself to choose
The words of a scene that
Is the same as
Always, always
Almost until becoming nothing
Only love if love is
This darkness that one never gets used to
This light in the soul
That no one can understand
Except for you
Except for you

I write to you from a room
In semi-darkness
From here I can move myself secretly from the world
To which I now feel deeply alien
The immense and its opposite
Are places of my heart
And you are now that sea
From which I let myself be carried away, no no

Always, always
Almost until becoming nothing
Only love if love is
This darkness that one never gets used to
This light in the soul
That still shines always, always
Until it makes me become nothing
And until it makes me become nothing

This light in the soul
That no one can understand
Except
Except for you
Except for you

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