Fotos na Estante

Without more or less
Without remedy, without excuse
In odd hours
Shy, hidden hours

Through the corners
Of indiscreet glances
Our love
Clear love of an object

Without pain or crime
Simple and direct love
Among the clay birds
Resting on the shelf

Through the yellow backs
Of these insincere photos
I discovered beautiful lies
As terrible as they are beautiful

I say what to do then
They are memories so real
Of what never happened

I drew foolish mirages
On the edges of your desert
And an impossible truth
Just to have you close

Without pain or crime
Simple and direct love
Among the clay birds
Resting on the shelf

Through the corners
Of indiscreet glances
Our love
Broke like an object

I say what to do then
They are memories so real
Of what never happened

I drew foolish mirages
On the edges of your desert
And an impossible truth
Just to have you close

I drew foolish mirages
On the edges of your desert
And an impossible truth
Just to have you close