Made a promise to myself
That wouldn't be dumbed by the block
Wouldn't start off and die midway...
Wouldn't be another Gordon Comstock!
When the drizzle is still on
And the citylights play on me and the road
Like previous years of complete solitude...
And the music still on request is jockeyed long
On radios in moving vehicles on the relaxed street...
And when still young lovers bluffing the world somewhere meet...
And when aspidistra across the glossy mezzanine
Still grow in pots red once devised by architectural hopes mine...
And my love still watches soaps and my kid plays with alphabets
And my feathered rain...still craves for my whispers lying on her bed...
Can I afford to be a lonesome thorny desert?
Can I by just dunes of sand be forever covered?
When there are still several weeks of months unspent...
When dreams of dolphins shooting surf white and blue arrive on my screens faint...
When the movie tickets still in my pockets of jeans crumpled wait...
When fountains of joy at evenings still with sporadic colors lawns before my eyes set...
And the trams like history written in archaic letters with metallic rhythm ply...
And every dove mandatory rest still finds on the bridge across that river Kwai...
And the city still wakes with the sights of newspaper vendors ringing bells...
And the afternoon on the busy pavement hot piping delicious gastronomy sells...
Can I afford to sit like an inanimate, insensitive thing?
Can I die even only in complete nothingness with no meaning?
That wouldn't be dumbed by the block
Wouldn't start off and die midway...
Wouldn't be another Gordon Comstock!
When the drizzle is still on
And the citylights play on me and the road
Like previous years of complete solitude...
And the music still on request is jockeyed long
On radios in moving vehicles on the relaxed street...
And when still young lovers bluffing the world somewhere meet...
And when aspidistra across the glossy mezzanine
Still grow in pots red once devised by architectural hopes mine...
And my love still watches soaps and my kid plays with alphabets
And my feathered rain...still craves for my whispers lying on her bed...
Can I afford to be a lonesome thorny desert?
Can I by just dunes of sand be forever covered?
When there are still several weeks of months unspent...
When dreams of dolphins shooting surf white and blue arrive on my screens faint...
When the movie tickets still in my pockets of jeans crumpled wait...
When fountains of joy at evenings still with sporadic colors lawns before my eyes set...
And the trams like history written in archaic letters with metallic rhythm ply...
And every dove mandatory rest still finds on the bridge across that river Kwai...
And the city still wakes with the sights of newspaper vendors ringing bells...
And the afternoon on the busy pavement hot piping delicious gastronomy sells...
Can I afford to sit like an inanimate, insensitive thing?
Can I die even only in complete nothingness with no meaning?
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