December 1, 2011
I look over the window.
I see the sun, I see the sky,
I watch the cars, moving slow,
But everything is just a lie.

I’m away of touching it,
I’m so far of feeling it.

Here, inside, that’s like a painting,
Like a photo made with eyes.
I don’t feel if there’s raining
I don’t care if someone dies.

If I open slow the glass
The photo turns in something new.
I can see that there’s grass,
I can feel that there’s you.

But even so, we’re still apart.
You are there in the painting,
I’m inside, watching the art,
And I always will be waiting
Getting ready for the start.

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