These city streets, the labyrinthine black roads
These tubes, they suck me in
I hear the rustle of dry fronds, owls in the roof
I hear the chink of money on the brain
Those who resent us patting us on the shoulder
No, Sir, I said
Then stopped, remembering the face
Of a country I had for a long time yearned for
I wished I could turn into oil
Into loaves of bread and into fruit
I wished ... but I had not turned into anything at all
Down the streets of the city now I slipped
I shouted (in my heart): " I'll keep myself clean,
I'll stay ... " but then I completely lost the thread
In this street of the rushing human wave
There was dancing
Signs with inscriptions. A film, a murder
Down the city streets I slipped as down long tubes
To the square where I had wished
To meet the lady I had been told came every night
To general applause. Joyfully she'd come down
Among the neon lights and microphones.
But this is my fortieth evening here and I see nothing.
Has anyone seen her?
The lady has the time
The lady has the joy
The lady has her homeland
O well I could do worse
Than read the signs, telling myself and her:
Nothing in it for me
I know there are things I wish for
And dream about
I know I can touch them, even
But
Hypocritical words
And only one thing's true:
Nothing in it for me.
A haberdashery now and a lady
Just like the one that I imagine, in she comes
Ten minutes, takes her fur and turns away
The chauffeur opens the door ... in she slips
This lady, the dream, the temporary joy ...
All disappear
Hypocritical words
And only one thing's true:
Nothing in it for me.
Thousands of faces have crowded the neons of Spring
The microphones and the vehicles
Observation machines ... But now they've gone away
Perhaps somebody glimpsed her crossing the square
Perhaps somebody saw her face clearly
Perhaps some people took away gifts she gave
But I saw nothing!
In my room the books are climbing the walls
My face is alone with the desk
I'm thinking:
She might have been the woman
Who stepped out of the bus when I was getting in?
Or the maid who enchanted her master?
Let her be what she likes
My words are hypocritical
And only one thing's true:
Nothing in it for me
I only have this city with its labyrinthine tubes
My skin is bursting with the din of machines
Smelling of kerosene and gas
My face was white but now it's motley hued
With the minutes quickly passing
You read
Numbers and addresses and you read
What is flung in your face from office and shop and sign
I have no other road to the lady
I have seen the truth
I deserve to see her, don't I?
And tripping here I have collapsed over a heap
Of newspapers:
O swoon of love! You were my silken coverlet
And my deep, deep well ...
These tubes, they suck me in
I hear the rustle of dry fronds, owls in the roof
I hear the chink of money on the brain
Those who resent us patting us on the shoulder
No, Sir, I said
Then stopped, remembering the face
Of a country I had for a long time yearned for
I wished I could turn into oil
Into loaves of bread and into fruit
I wished ... but I had not turned into anything at all
Down the streets of the city now I slipped
I shouted (in my heart): " I'll keep myself clean,
I'll stay ... " but then I completely lost the thread
In this street of the rushing human wave
There was dancing
Signs with inscriptions. A film, a murder
Down the city streets I slipped as down long tubes
To the square where I had wished
To meet the lady I had been told came every night
To general applause. Joyfully she'd come down
Among the neon lights and microphones.
But this is my fortieth evening here and I see nothing.
Has anyone seen her?
The lady has the time
The lady has the joy
The lady has her homeland
O well I could do worse
Than read the signs, telling myself and her:
Nothing in it for me
I know there are things I wish for
And dream about
I know I can touch them, even
But
Hypocritical words
And only one thing's true:
Nothing in it for me.
A haberdashery now and a lady
Just like the one that I imagine, in she comes
Ten minutes, takes her fur and turns away
The chauffeur opens the door ... in she slips
This lady, the dream, the temporary joy ...
All disappear
Hypocritical words
And only one thing's true:
Nothing in it for me.
Thousands of faces have crowded the neons of Spring
The microphones and the vehicles
Observation machines ... But now they've gone away
Perhaps somebody glimpsed her crossing the square
Perhaps somebody saw her face clearly
Perhaps some people took away gifts she gave
But I saw nothing!
In my room the books are climbing the walls
My face is alone with the desk
I'm thinking:
She might have been the woman
Who stepped out of the bus when I was getting in?
Or the maid who enchanted her master?
Let her be what she likes
My words are hypocritical
And only one thing's true:
Nothing in it for me
I only have this city with its labyrinthine tubes
My skin is bursting with the din of machines
Smelling of kerosene and gas
My face was white but now it's motley hued
With the minutes quickly passing
You read
Numbers and addresses and you read
What is flung in your face from office and shop and sign
I have no other road to the lady
I have seen the truth
I deserve to see her, don't I?
And tripping here I have collapsed over a heap
Of newspapers:
O swoon of love! You were my silken coverlet
And my deep, deep well ...