April 25, 2008
En Attendant Ses Pas
Stupidly, I don't know if it will ring.
If I won't hear it this time.
Waiting for his footsteps that morning.
An evening? A morning? A winter, a dawn, a spring that he'll choose.
Nothing, I don't know anything, I turn the lights on at night, at the side of the pathways.
Waiting for his footsteps, I paint flowers on the doors.
He will like that.
Waiting for the tender time in his arms.
And I take care of myself (in the daily make-up way), red on my lips, on my cheeks,
So that he won't see when I sometimes pale too much, especially when he surprises me like that.
There is fresh water and wine.
I don't know which he'll choose.
I don't kow if he is blond, or brunette.
I don't know if he is tall or not.
But in listening to his voice, I know that all his words will be for me.
Waiting for the tender time in his arms.
I think of it all the time, this moment, when we will meet again,
I would tell him, it's been long, no, I won't tell him surely.
In waiting for his arms, I live, I dream and I breathe for that.
In waiting for a touch of all that.
Posted by jjcobwebb on April 25, 2008 at 02:30 AM in Everyday Drama, Songs and Poems, Music | Post a comment