É um grito silencioso...
One hundred other words blind me with your purity
Like an old painted doll in the flows of dusk
I think about tomorrow...
Please let me sleep as I slip out the window
A freshly squashed fly... You mean nothing, you mean nothing.
Too many people, too many lies lying in hatred.
Too many people, please make it good tonight, ride into the night
But a strange image haunts me in a secret despair of time
I will never be clean again
She touched her eyes and pressed my stained face
I will never be clean again.
The Cure
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário