One believes
That time and absence killed them
But their train
Sold a ticket
Round trip

They are those little things
That a time of roses left us
In a corner
On a piece of paper
Or in a drawer

Like a thief
They lurk behind
The door
They have you so
At their mercy
Like dead leaves

That the wind drags here or there
That smile at you sadly and
Make us
Cry when
No one sees us

CONSULTER LES PAROLES ORIGINALES