A blank canvas… a dark night…
The shattered evenings… some colours bright.
An unknown fear… a rolling tear…
Something too foggy… something crystal clear…
A wavering string follows the damp emptiness,
A piece of grief covers every face…
He who burns the filthy masks…
He is unsure, yet never ever asks.
The autumn leaves keep falling down,
The monster of life keeps swinging around the town…
The burning desires… the rampant attires—
It’s the city… the city of noir.
The lanes melt into unreachable dead ends,
The skeleton of emptiness soaks and bends,
Bending down beneath the trees of hope,
And coming back home with a broken rope.
The city of light… the city of memoirs…
It’s the city… the city of noir.
The pain of existence and the joy of death,
The real, the surreal, the mystery or the myth—
The drops of shadow will soon be diminished,
The road of life will soon be finished.
You will remain here, but with only a few vibrant reflections,
I do not know where I shall be, yet I will remain with secret confessions.
It’s the city that takes away what is due,
It’s the city that pays back with few.
The city of blessings… the city of the choir—
It’s the city… the city of noir.
DoubleSpeak 