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текст песни

These people won't understand us.
But what do we care about them?
To them, we are weeds—
And we’ve been torn out,
Just like that page from a book
With flowers on the cover.

You know yourself how forgotten they’ve become—
Those flowers.
We strove to be free,
And now we are alone.
We are without everyone.
We are in the shadows,
In the dark,
Without a dream.

We are trapped in those looping songs—
Composed of pride and shame—
That play on through the morning, and through our pain.

We won't look each other in the eye—not like in that song
Where I screamed, "I'm drowning, bitch!"
Where I supposedly longed—somewhere in that moment—
To reach out and grasp your cold hands.

We can never repeat it;
It’s all too cloying now, too feigned.
All that remains for us is to remember—
And to search, in those empty spaces,
For even the slightest trace of that spark.

The bedspread holds no scent of Paris;
And besides, we aren't in France—to go on loving like this for a lifetime...