"A la voz francesa que inspiro este sueño, o al sueño que aun no he visto y quizás haya inspirado a la voz a cantar"
In the haziness of a monochromatic dream of old cities falling appart, while I stood in amazement and wonder with my eyes aiming at an elusive sun or moon, she whispered to me from the distance: <<Be in my way. Be my way. Let me be any way I am meant to be. Then, and only then, I will be your way, your way to see love, your way to feel joy, your way to a happier way of living everyday...>>
It must have been the confusion of a dreamed world, the impersonality of my face or the gust of winds mixing with the destructive noise of the desintagrating buildings of sand and water what made him think that my shout was a whisper, that my words were in english. Through the disappearing sound of the cords of my dying guitar, sitting in the midst of a vanishing unreality, while he stared at a veiled moon, I shouted to him from the back of my heart, the top of my loud crying voice: "Eblouie par la nuit à coup de lumière mortelle; A-il aimé la vie ou la regarder juste passer?; De nos nuits de fumette il ne reste presque rien; Que tes cendres au matin; J’t'ai attendu 100 ans dans les rues en noir et blanc..."
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