THE HANDS ON THE HEARTS BEATING NO MORE INTO THE RHYTHM OF OUR LOVE

Somebody said “this springґs color is white, the white is the new black”
Iґd like to stain that white with red, with your blood
ґcause itґs like a [bad word] for me and it seals the tomb iґve buried inside

Once we felt something in our hearts
we were burning…we are still burning
warming our hands upon these hearts beating no more into the rhythm of our love
the hearts beating no more into the rhythm of our love

Somebody said “this springґs color is red, the red is the new white”

Poet might say “when the flower is growing alone it should be
withered before its first bloom”
What if there is no poetry in our lives anymore?
There is no art in our love anymore

“the paper is still empty…
the canvas is still unpainted”

…life is like a manual for suicide
heart is like a cemetery deep inside
this story is ended before its first chapter is written
this story is ended and the first chapter is forgotten

this night came in white, in black, in red
this night, the perfect bed for the one counting sheep
All this is ours while the world sleeps

Somebody said “this springґs color is black, the black is the new red”
Iґd like to stay in night…
ґcause itґs like a [bad word] for me and it seals the tomb iґve buried inside

Once we felt something in our hearts
we were burning…we are still burning
warming our hands upon these hearts beating no more into the rhythm of our love
the hearts beating no more into the rhythm of our love

This springґs color should be black…