A face in the mirror

It's evening, the city lights are slowly fading,
A face in the mirror that is barely recognizable anymore.
The smoke draws circles on the window glass,
No one writes, only the night looks back deep inside.
A coat soaked to the point of rags, a cheap motel bed,
A needle in his hand like a forgotten prayer.
Winter has taken away his eighteen years,
His heart beats like a stairwell doorknob at midnight.
A white silence runs through his veins,
Like snow that freezes on his scars.
He gives everything for a minute of heavenly experience,
Just so that nothing hurts from here tonight.
But the city doesn't ask, and the moon doesn't speak,
He just watches as the noise and words slowly fade away.
Childhood images: summer, bicycle, pebble castle,
Her mother's voice is distant, like a prayer book too old.
She promises that one day she will leave here,
How will there be another smile that is not a terrible woe.
The step slipped somewhere halfway,
Hospital walls, the weight of the medicines outweighs the weight of the pillows.
Whoever once held her hand lives elsewhere,
The room remains, and the cold, bluish-lit winter.
A white silence runs through her veins,
Like snow that freezes on her scars.
She gives everything for a minute of heavenly experience,
Just so that nothing hurts from here tonight.
But the city doesn't ask, and the moon doesn't speak,
She just watches the noise and the words slowly fade away.
Somewhere on the street an old song still plays,
To which she once danced when she wasn't afraid of the day.
Now the shadow calls to her, whispering, "Come back,
I'll hide you until the morning comes."
Her heart responds slowly, like a fading signal,
Her phone flashes, but she doesn't pick up.
Just one breath, another - then nothing more,
An ambulance siren outside, but the noise no longer reaches her.
(quieter)**
A white silence runs through her veins,
Like snow freezing on her scars.
She gave up everything for a minute of heavenly experience,
So that nothing would hurt from here tonight.
And the city didn't ask, the moon didn't speak,
She just watched as every word faded forever. Jeans, keys, a jacket on the edge of the bed,
A train of thought interrupted on the pages of a diary.
“One day I will go home” – that’s how the sentence remained half-finished,
The dawn slowly breaks through the window, but winter is no longer coming for it.
A white silence settles over the room,
A few images of a young girl remain, a few silent movements.
The needle on the floor, as if it were a dropped pen,
An unfinished story where there is no full stop at the end.
Visszajelzés küldése
Oldalsó panelek
Előzmények
Mentve