Idioma Origen:
It's a still-life watercolor
of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain lace,
and shadows wash the room
And we sit and drink our coffee,
couched in our indifference
Like shells upon the shore,
you can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
The borders of our lives
And you read your Emily Dickinson,
and I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with bookmarkers
that measure what we've lost
Like a poem poorly written,
we are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme,
in syncopated time.
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives
Yes we speak of things that matter
with words that must be said
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theatre really dead?"
And now the room has softly faded,
and I only kiss your shadow
I cannot feel your hand,
you're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives
Idioma Destino:
It's a still-life watercolor
of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain lace,
and shadows wash the room
And we sit and drink our coffee,
couched in our indifference
Like shells upon the shore,
you can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
The borders of our lives
And you read your Emily Dickinson,
and I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with bookmarkers
that measure what we've lost
Like a poem poorly written,
we are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme,
in syncopated time.
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives
Yes we speak of things that matter
with words that must be said
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theatre really dead?"
And now the room has softly faded,
and I only kiss your shadow
I cannot feel your hand,
you're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives