All the stars burn,
I tumble across the bed.
The bottom of a bottle tastes like nothing
of whatever happens to me.
I'm telling it to my pillow.
I follow your troupe,
I eat your jam
'cause your lips, tired of speaking, insist
on asking me a lot
if Heaven is real
or is another sham.
Is it made of cardboard?
Is it made of ice?
Is it my tickles when your hair brushes against me?
Is it made of concrete?
Is it your black eyes?
Is it the time since I last sneaked in the tube?
Is it that my heart is a car with no brakes?
Is it my brown world?
And my soul is in black and white.
I only know the heaven in your mouth and I get poisoned
with the kisses we give each other,
with the desire we feel
and the little time we take
to miss each other so much,
to miss each other, to miss each other.
All the lampposts go off.
I go up to the terrace.
The first light of daybreak
has kept me awake
from this sweet dream,
'cause even if I don't control it,
lately, I have only dreamt of colours.
I only dream, dream of different flavours
and down from hell, I'm trying to ask you
what the heaven in our hearts is made of.
Is it made of cardboard?
Is it made of ice?
Is it my tickles when your hair brushes against me?
Is it made of concrete?
Is it your black eyes?
Is it the time since I last sneaked in the tube?
Is it that my heart is a car with no brakes?
Is it my brown world?
And my soul is in black and white.
I only know the heaven in your mouth and I get poisoned
with the kisses we give each other,
with the desire we feel
and the little time we take
to miss each other so much.
And even if the mermaids sing,
I'm staying here by your side
with my dishevelled heart
that dreams of becoming a wanderer
who wants to follow your steps.
Your steps.
Your steps.
Your steps.