Glenn Close [English translation]

Tell me about summer, about those long absences

Tell me about the nothing that makes everything rancid

About your practiced fingers grazing my childhood

When everything in me wavers and nothing dances

Tell me about our vices hidden by the pretty things

About the summer solstices and the weight of roses

About the Garnier opera filled to capacity

About your depraved English shattering all your poses

But tell me

Tell me softly

That you don't really believe it

Tell me again that we haven't reached that point

Tell me about the cadent houses

About the lengths of your nights

Tell me about your fears

About your forbidden movies

About this driving rain washing out Paris

About this happy idiot chauffeuring your taxi

Tell me about nonsense

Describe me your passageways

About our nettle soups

When our moons go dark

Talk to me like never before

Like the last intruder

Like that anxious queer

Educated in the closet

But tell me

Tell me softly

That you don't really believe it

Tell me again that we haven't reached that point

Tell me about those flights

Headed to Barcelona

Talk to me like a dog

That is beaten and abandoned

About your entrenched hatred

While I forgive you

About Glenn Close that you love

And whom I couldn't care less about

Tell me about your arms

As long as streamers

Our banners from Poitou

About your womanly disgusts

Our thousands of shivers

At the rise of wind-blown sands

The drained coffees

In your homemade mugs

But tell me

Tell me softly

That you don't really believe it

Tell me again that we haven't reached that point

Tell me about how you carry on

No matter what may come

About your one-night dresses

That weigh as much as stones

Tell me about the evenings

The jealous devil's ball

Sorting out the invites

From Facebook, oh who's who

Tell me about the troubles

Of owning a large apartment

About the shroud and the mourning

In your gypsy camp

Tell me without faltering

About your hostile consent

To my trivial presence

In your docile decor

But tell me

Tell me softly

That you don't really believe it

Tell me again that we haven't reached that point

Tell me about the cynics

And about our lives as lovers

About our Iberian feet

Trapped in cement

About your critical reports

That dream us as great ones

Walking on the exotic

The slabs of spring

But tell me

Tell me softly

That you don't really believe it

Tell me again that we haven't reached that point